


Two Sides of the Same Coin

by elizaye



Category: Merlin (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crossover, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic, Master/Servant, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Poison, Prince Dean, Servant Castiel, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 86,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although magic is outlawed in the land of Winchester, there are still those who practice it covertly. Castiel is one of these practitioners, unique in that he has had magic since his birth and can use it instinctively. It just so happens that he is also a foot soldier in one of the garrisons in General Michael's army, tasked with finding and rescuing the lost Prince of Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a Dean/Cas Merlin AU. I say "kind of" because this part here doesn't really parallel Merlin that much. I have a couple ideas on how to extend the story, but I haven't decided whether or not I want to. For now, I'm just gonna call it complete, but there is definitely a chance that I'll be writing more of this because I feel like there's so much potential. **EDIT:** I will indeed be extending this, but I can't say when the second chapter is gonna come out. Thanks ahead of time for being patient with me!
> 
> (Also I might be itching to write more medieval Dean/Cas because I just miss [tsooe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/907148/chapters/1755798) a lot. *sniff*)

“We’re dead,” Balthazar mutters, shaking his head. “It’s over. The others are dead, the prince is probably dead, and we’re gonna be dead by morning.”

“Shut up,” Heston hisses. “The last thing we need right now is your negativity.”

“Right. I’d drink my own piss if you could come up with a silver lining in _this_ godforsaken situation.”

“Just be quiet and let him think,” Uriel says, voice low.

Castiel just glares down at his hands. They’re capable of so much, yet he cannot _do_ anything with them, for fear of persecution when he returns home to Winchester. He’s reasonably certain that the few remaining survivors of his garrison wouldn’t turn him in, but he wouldn’t put it past Heston to tell the truth in the future, when the threat of imminent death has been lifted.

He looks around the small table at the remaining soldiers. Uriel has his back to everyone else, facing the fire that’s flickering across the room from him. Balthazar has let his head drop to the surface of the table. Inias, Heston, and Samandriel are sitting ramrod straight, hands folded on the table in front of them.

This wasn’t always Castiel’s garrison—he is technically still just a regular foot soldier, as he was when they entered the land of Delmonica three months ago, steadfast in their mission to find and rescue the missing prince, but Anael was slain last month, and someone had to step in as leader.

“There’s no way for us to get out of here,” Balthazar says, voice muffled by the table. “Just say it, Cas. We’re trapped here, and we’re going to die.”

“He’s still thinking,” Samandriel says, but the note of hope in his voice is clearly forced.

It took weeks to fight through to the capital, and two nights ago, Castiel led a group of fourteen fellow soldiers into the city, disguised as a group of merchants coming into town to see what they could stock up on. They’d managed to slip into the dungeons beneath the castle, dodging sentries, but they hadn’t found the prince. Even worse, they were discovered by the castle guards, and their number was cut down from fifteen to six.

There’s a Delmonican patrol specifically searching for the survivors, and when Castiel wandered into the streets yesterday, he noticed that the guards stationed at the city gates were forcing every man leaving the city to bare his torso, checking for the wings that a soldier under General Michael would have inked across his shoulder blades.

There is indeed no easy way out of the city. And the prince could very well be dead.

“I’ll bet they think we’ve all died already,” Inias mutters. “We were supposed to return months ago.”

“Well, they’ll be right, by tomorrow morning,” Balthazar says glumly.

“We’ll need a diversion,” Castiel says, hoping to lift his soldiers out of their despair.

Samandriel immediately perks up. “I could provide that,” he offers.

“No, it’ll have to be me,” Castiel says.

“Why? You’re leading us,” Balthazar says, lifting his head.

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m no leader—Uriel can lead as well as I. Now, I want you all to go to the city walls, near the gates, and find a place to hide. I’ll create a distraction near the castle, one that’ll require the guards to come running. They’re stretched thin as it is, with doubled patrols throughout the city and all the soldiers we managed to dispatch yesterday. When the alarm sounds, the gates will be left nearly unguarded. Kill any soldiers in your path and leave the city.”

“What about you?” Inias asks, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll make my way out,” Castiel answers.

Balthazar squints at him. “But how?”

“Look, we’re probably going to die either way, as you so helpfully pointed out, so we may as well try this,” Uriel says, finally turning to face the group. Eyes on Castiel, he says, “The sooner we leave, the better. I say we go now.”

Castiel nods and gets to his feet. “Head for the gates in two minutes. When you’re outside, don’t wait for me—just go straight back to Winchester. It’ll be too hard for us to set up a meeting place, and if they discover that this was a diversion, they’ll send men in search of us.”

“Godspeed, Castiel,” Heston says.

Castiel nods again, turning to go to the door. A hand wraps around his forearm, and he turns to see Balthazar’s worried eyes only inches from his face.

“Do you need any help?” he asks. “I—”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel says. “This will work better on my own. Stay with the others.” Lowering his voice a little, he says, “If this doesn’t go according to plan, I hope that at least one of us will make it home to Mother.”

“Better you than me, though,” Balthazar says, and of course he’d say that—Mother adopted him when he was very small. Castiel had been an infant at the time.

“No,” Castiel says, shaking his head. “Get home alive—that’s an order.”

Balthazar nods once, decisive, and Castiel smiles quickly before brushing his brother’s hand off his forearm and exiting the room. The inn is quiet, most of the rooms unoccupied, and he hurries downstairs, swift and silent.

Once out on the street, Castiel keeps to the sides of buildings, trying to stay in the shadows as much as possible. He manages to reach the stables just outside the castle without incident, though it takes about five minutes for him to do so. Crouched down against a wall, he pulls up the hood of the cloak he’s been wearing and counts until three minutes have passed, just to ensure that the others are in place at the city walls.

Then, slowly, he moves around the corner and presses a hand to the door leading inside—the walls may be made of stone, but the door is wooden, which means it can burn. With a whispered word, the wood goes up in flames, quickly catching the thatched roof on fire.

Inside, the horses start whinnying, and Castiel concentrates, directing a strong gust of wind toward the stables to blow the fire inward.

Distraction complete, Castiel rushes back the way he came just as he hears footsteps coming from the castle. But his timing is unfortunate—he turns a corner and sees a patrol heading right in his direction, presumably having caught sight of the fire and come to help.

“Shit,” Castiel curses, backing up a few steps as the soldiers begin to charge.

He spins around and sprints back toward the stables, hoping to take a different alley out of this place, but the guards from the castle arrive at the stables right when he does, and they box him in, circling to cut off any hope of escape.

Castiel draws his sword, but they draw their weapons as well, and Castiel counts twelve men circling him in. Others are coming, drawn by the fire, and he hears soldiers kicking down the door and yelling about water to extinguish the flames.

Knowing that he has been beaten, Castiel drops his sword and takes a knee. Two men sheath their swords and approach with rope to tie him up, and Castiel allows himself to be taken.

* * *

From the inside of his cell, Castiel can hear no commotion. He doesn’t recognize this place, and he wonders if the prince is being kept inside a cell like this one—the walls are all stone, with no windows save a small slit in the door, which is also stone. Castiel imagines that a lot of magic was expended on the construction of this prison.

He tests the chains restraining his hands to the cross behind him. They’re metal, and when he tries to break them with magic, nothing really happens. But he doesn’t feel his powers repressed, so perhaps he can weaken the metal cuffs over the course of a period of time, enough that they’ll snap.

Similar cuffs are around his ankles and his neck, and a final restraint is wrapped around his middle.

His cloak and shirt were stripped from him, along with his boots, but his trousers he was allowed to keep on. Castiel wonders idly if they’ll really cut the wings from his back, as the rumors claim. But he’s been strung up with his back to a cross, so if they do intend on doing so, they won’t be doing it right away.

Concentrating on the locked door, Castiel murmurs the incantation for unlocking locks and finds that he is capable of unlocking it. He locks it again immediately, reassured by the knowledge that he can make good his escape, if he just gets out of these chains. And maybe he’ll find the prince in another one of these cells, when he’s out.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the lock clicks, and the door swings outward.

A tall, gaunt man enters, an unpleasant smile on his face. “Hello, there. Welcome.”

“Hello,” Castiel responds.

“It’ll please you to hear that your fellow soldiers escaped from the city. Didn’t even wait for you, though—took off straight for the hills,” he says. Eyeing Castiel, he adds, “Though I suppose that was exactly what you wanted of them, wasn’t it?”

Castiel does his best not to let his relief show in his face, unwilling to give anything away.

“You _are_ the leader of your pathetic little crew of men, aren’t you?”

“Our leader was killed a while ago,” Castiel responds.

“Well. I suppose you’ll have to do instead, then,” the man drawls. “My name is Alastair. I assume you are not willing to share your name with me yet, but I’m not worried—we’ll be getting well acquainted soon enough, I assure you.”

So it’s to be torture, then, Castiel thinks with resignation.

“But just in case I’m wrong, what _is_ your name?” Alastair asks.

Castiel just looks the man in the eye and waits.

“What is your rank?” he asks next. “How long have you served in General Michael’s army?”

“I will not answer your questions,” Castiel says steadily. “So you may as well save your breath.”

“Honest,” Alastair says, smiling. “I like you.”

Castiel closes his eyes and waits for the pain to come. But what he hears instead is Alastair’s footsteps as he moves away, followed by the door swinging open. Castiel opens his eyes to see that the door to his cell is indeed ajar, and Alastair has vanished.

But before Castiel can think on the man’s motivations for long, another man steps into the room, and this one’s face is familiar— _Prince Dean_.

Castiel’s eyes widen despite themselves, but he holds his tongue, taking in the prince’s appearance. Up close, he’s just as beautiful as he’d seemed from afar, full lips and a straight nose and well-proportioned cheekbones and jaw. But there’s a manic glint in his eyes that can’t have been there before, something dark and dangerous coiled up inside him.

The prince asks no questions, only pulls the door closed and steps over to a table of implements, placing his back to Castiel. When he turns around, there’s a knife in his right hand.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, testing.

There’s no visible response, and then the prince lifts the blade and presses it into Castiel’s chest, right above his sternum.

* * *

This one is different from the others.

It screams, yes, but it never begs or pleads for mercy, never actively struggles to escape, only flinches and spasms in response to Dean’s actions. It doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask anything from him. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

But then, it doesn’t matter, because Dean doesn’t _need_ to make anything of it. Alastair will take care of everything.

All Dean needs to do is break it.

Each day he works through maybe ten subjects, and each day it’s a different set of ten. He doesn’t know where these subjects are coming from, only that it is his job to break them, to make them ready for Alastair to use.

But at the end of each day for the past several days, Dean hasn’t been brought back to his cell immediately—he’s been taken instead to a new room, the room where _it_ is, and Dean doesn’t like it.

It stares at him like it has the _right_ , and Dean tries his best to tear it apart, without hurting it irreversibly, because Alastair wouldn’t like that.

But even after he leaves it and returns to his cell, his sleep is haunted by wide, blue eyes, boring into him.

* * *

After each session, someone comes in to look at Castiel’s wounds to ensure that they are not fatal, and then he is left alone, presumably for the length of a day. A man comes in to provide water, also seemingly once a day, and Castiel finds himself longing for food, starving.

He works on the metal cuffs, weakening them slowly but surely, but it takes time. It’s been six of these potential “days,” and he feels himself growing feebler with each spell he casts to weaken the cuffs. How will he convince Dean to leave with him? He hasn’t tried speaking to the prince since the first day and hasn’t heard the prince make the slightest sound in all his sessions.

The door opens abruptly, and Castiel braces himself.

“Hello, Bluebird,” Alastair says—it’s the name he chose, since Castiel has yet to give up his name.

“Hello,” Castiel says hoarsely.

“Are you feeling more inclined to talk, today?”

“No.”

Alastair frowns. “You know, you’ve been getting special treatment here, a visit from me and my star pupil once a day, every day. And the reason for that is because you, Bluebird, are the first guest from Winchester that we’ve had with us in a long time,” he says. “I intend to pry the secrets from your pretty little head, and then I’ll see what we can do with you.”

“I will not reveal any secrets from Winchester,” Castiel says resolutely.

“Well. We’ll see about that, once I’ve found my sorcerer. He’ll take the truth straight out of your mind.”

Castiel refuses to show fear at the threat, holding Alastair’s gaze until he exits the room.

Dean enters then, and Castiel closes his eyes.

* * *

Tonight is the night. It’s been ten days since Castiel was captured and placed here, and he’s had enough time to weaken the chain links that hold him in place, just enough for him to break free. Alastair comes in at the normal time with his typical taunts and threats, and Castiel acts as though nothing is amiss.

Then Dean comes into the room, and Alastair exits.

Castiel gives himself ten minutes, reasoning with himself that Alastair should be sufficiently far away by then. During this time, Dean uses the tip of his knife to carve intricate little swirls into Castiel’s left pectoral. At the end of the ten minutes, he murmurs a few words quickly in the Old Tongue, and the chains snap away from his arms, middle, and legs. Castiel lifts his hand to the thick chain around his neck and murmurs another spell, breaking that one as well.

Dean backs up a step, startled, but he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t sound an alarm—Castiel had expected this because of his silence up until this point. He doesn’t know what has happened to the prince, but he knows it must have been truly traumatic, to have reduced him to this.

Castiel hesitates for a moment, waiting to see what Dean will do, but he just stares at Castiel, seeming lost. It’s probably confusing to him, Castiel realizes—after being conditioned to one type of situation for so long, to the point of blank-faced obedience, the breaking of that pattern must be disorienting.

He moves toward the door, and Dean grasps his arm as he passes, stopping him.

“Let me go, or come with me,” Castiel says, keeping his voice low so that the sentries won’t hear.

In all likelihood, there aren’t even any sentries outside right now—it isn’t as though Alastair would expect Castiel to be able to break out, or have reinforcements.

Dean takes a moment to deliberate before stepping closer to Castiel, eyes intent. Castiel starts walking, and Dean follows—thank goodness. Castiel really doesn’t think he has the energy to compel Dean right now, and he certainly doesn’t have the physical strength to drag Dean along against his will.

Castiel casts a cloaking spell over them and moves quietly through empty hallways. Dean moves behind him silently, footsteps making no noise at all, and Castiel finds himself checking over his shoulder multiple times to make sure that Dean’s still there. They make their way out of the castle dungeons through a back grate and take the shortest route out of the city. Castiel could confuse the men standing guard long enough for them to slip out, and with any luck, their absence will not be noted until morning.

It works perfectly—almost too well. The spell does its job admirably, and the guards let Dean and Castiel pass through the gates without any fuss.

He wishes he could have done this for the men in his garrison, but that would have blown his cover, and while they may not have any personal prejudices against the use of magic, it is still outlawed—Castiel would be punished for it upon return to Winchester.

They’ve only been walking for about ten minutes when horns sound, and Castiel breaks into a run, reaching back to grab at Dean’s arm. The prince doesn’t lose a beat, keeping pace with Castiel easily.

Ordinarily, Castiel is an excellent runner—he can run for miles and miles without stopping to catch his breath. But he is barefoot, with no shirt on his back to shield him from the biting cold, and after ten consecutive days of torture and minimal nourishment, he can’t really expect himself to last long, even helped along by adrenaline.

He isn’t surprised when he collapses, legs unable to support himself any longer. What _does_ surprise him is the fact that Dean stops, kneeling down beside him like he’s unsure what to do now. But Dean can’t possibly _stay_ here, not when Alastair will be sending men out to find his “star pupil.”

So Castiel pushes himself up, trying to crawl over to the nearest bush, grateful that the greenery is plentiful in this part of the world. When Dean realizes what Castiel is trying to do, he half-lifts him to help him along, and Castiel wonders how Dean is rationalizing his actions, in this moment.

Dismissing it as a trivial concern, Castiel casts a cloaking spell to hide them from search parties—it’ll take some time for them to find this specific spot, but Castiel doesn’t know how long he’ll still be able to hold onto his magic, so it’s probably best that he cast spells while he still can. He breathes hard, trying to catch his breath, and looks up at Dean, who’s just kneeling at his side, staring blankly ahead.

No—Castiel won’t be able to move unless he’s allowed time to recover, to let his magic heal himself. It’ll take time, and Dean needs to return home. He seems strong, healthy, able to quickly make the trip back to Winchester on foot, but Castiel is unsure whether or not he’ll know the way.

Sighing, Castiel concludes that he has one last spell to cast.

“Dean,” he says.

Dean doesn’t look at him, as though he doesn’t recognize his own name—it’s a chilling thought.

Castiel reaches up and palms the man’s cheek to get his attention, and Dean turns his head, eyes instantly honing in on Castiel’s, extremely focused in the way that they typically were whenever he tortured Castiel.

Trying to avoid the memories, phantom pain spreading across his body like a disease, Castiel manages a weak smile and whispers in the Old Tongue, “Go Home.”

When Dean doesn’t do anything, something breaks inside Castiel—their prince doesn’t even know where his own home is anymore, doesn’t think he has a home to go back to.

So Castiel braces himself, drags the prince’s head down so that he can cup his face in both hands, and reaches inside the prince’s mind, dragging out the memories of Winchester, of Prince Sam— _Sammy_ , a hoarse voice moans weakly in the back of Dean’s mind—of Dean’s favorite horse, of the towering, white-stone walls of the castle—

 _Home_ , Castiel thinks at Dean insistently, and blacks out.

* * *

Its hand is clammy, cold, and feeble, and Dean thinks that might be his fault, but he has trouble figuring out what to make of that thought. It whispers something at him, something he doesn’t understand, but the words send a shiver down his spine.

He stares at its blue eyes, perplexed, wonders if they would stop plaguing him if he plucked them out with a knife. But it’s too late for that now—they’ve left the cell, and Dean doesn’t have a knife on him.

Then it pulls weakly at Dean’s head, and he obligingly leans down, because it can’t hurt him, and its cold hands actually feel good against his face, which is hot from the run.

And then there’s fire behind his eyes, fire filling his head and burning him up from the inside.

He wants to back away, but he can’t.

He remembers retreating to a corner of his mind whenever Alastair dug into him, but it’s impossible now. The fire is everywhere, inescapable, and then he sees a boy with floppy hair and dark brown eyes— _Sammy_ —and then a black stallion galloping toward him— _Impala_ —and finally a set of familiar walls— _home_.

At that thought, Dean feels the same shiver passing through him as before.

The fire recedes from his head, and he finds himself sprinting, his legs moving without input from his brain. He feels as though he’s been scrubbed raw all over, quickly and painfully, but there’s a sense of clarity, of _purpose_ , that he hasn’t had in too long.

Looking around, he realizes that he doesn’t recognize any of these woods, but his feet know the way home, so home he will go.

It’s been too long.

And if it feels like he’s missing something, like he should _remember_ something…

Well, it’ll come to him. What he needs to do now is to go home.

* * *

It takes Castiel a full week to recover, though he does make slow progress during that week, sustaining himself with wild berries and using magic sparingly to warm himself up and speed up the healing of his wounds. It takes another two weeks to return to Winchester, the hike through the wilderness difficult because of his lack of shoes or proper clothing.

Someone takes pity on him in the third town he passes through and gives him an old, shoddy pair of shoes as well as a ratty coat, but he is in no condition to turn down any form of charity and accepts both gratefully.

Throughout his travels, he hears of the prince’s safe return, hears rumors of how he fought through hordes of enemy soldiers to return home to Winchester, and Castiel smiles, because he knows the truth.

He has just seen the walls of the capital appear in the distance and is judging the length of time it’ll take him to cross the valley separating him from home when a horse goes bolting past from behind him, startling him off the path.

The rider has a bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, and wears a long, red cape.

Castiel immediately recognizes the back of his head, doesn’t even need the rider to turn around to know that he is the prince. He keeps his eyes lowered, continuing on his way, but he does hear the hoof beats re-approaching, slower this time.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

Castiel lifts his eyes, startled—this is the first time he’s heard Dean’s voice. And then his breath catches, because Dean—Dean is _smiling_ , and he is _beautiful_.

Castiel had never noticed how green his eyes were, before.

“You all right?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel says slowly, inclining his head to ensure that his face is fully visible to Dean. “Do… you recognize me?” he asks.

Dean studies Castiel for a moment, and Castiel has the uncomfortable feeling of being weighed, measured in this man’s eyes. Finally, Dean answers with a smile, “No. I would remember you.”

Castiel is unsure what the implications of Dean’s claim that he would remember Castiel are, seeing as he clearly _doesn’t_. But the implications are unimportant; the very fact that Dean has no recollection of him is startling. Castiel had meant to suppress Dean’s memories of the torture, of being a torturer. Perhaps in doing so, he erased any memories Dean had of his escape as well.

Dean looks uncertain now, smile fading a little. “ _Should_ I remember you?” he asks.

“No,” Castiel answers quickly. He bows his head and starts to walk past Dean’s horse.

“Tell me your name.”

Castiel hears the request in Alastair’s voice and swallows thickly. “It is insignificant,” he says.

“What if I insist?”

“I’m afraid it would sully your ears, Highness.”

Dean huffs. “How can you be so sure that I’m royalty, hmm?”

“All residents of the capital know your face,” Castiel says.

“Ah, so you live in the capital,” Dean says.

Castiel just wants to return home, so he continues walking. A moment later, Dean rides past him down the hill, and he lets out a sigh of relief.

But then Dean turns his horse around, about twenty yards away, and shouts back, “If you live in the capital, you can be sure I’ll find out who you are, Bluebird!” With that, he tugs on the reins of his black steed and gallops away.

Castiel is left standing on the slope, frozen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Chinese New Year! :D
> 
> Also, this fic is gonna be mostly from Castiel's perspective, I think, but there will still be scenes from Dean's perspective, like the one that starts this chapter. Kind of in the way that most of Merlin was framed in Merlin's perspective, but there were some Arthur-oriented scenes/episodes too? Ahh idk, I'm sorta making it up as I go xD

It’s supposedly been three weeks since he got home. Dean isn’t sure how long it took for him to get back, and he isn’t really even sure that it actually _has_ been three weeks, because honestly, his sense of time right now is horrible. A couple minutes sometimes feels like a couple hours, but then sometimes he gets lost in thought for what feels like hours, only to find that when he comes back to himself, merely a few minutes have passed.

Bobby tells him that it’s a side-effect of having been in captivity for so long. After all, he doesn’t remember a thing, which is supposedly because he’s traumatized.

Dean doesn’t _feel_ traumatized. He feels healthy, whole, and ready to take on the world.

There’s a knock on the door, and Sam walks in before Dean’s even decided whether or not he wants a visitor. Sam’s always welcome, of course, but that doesn’t mean he needs to know that.

“What’s the point in knocking if you’re going to just barge in anyway?” Dean says grumpily.

Sam shrugs and sits down in the chair to Dean’s right. “Did I interrupt something?” he asks, unrepentant.

“No, but you could have.”

“Then when I do interrupt you, I’ll apologize,” Sam says, smiling. Dean doesn’t smile back, looking down at the table instead, and Sam asks, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Dean replies.

“Father said not to tell you, but he’s worried about how quiet you’ve been since you got back. And you haven’t trained with the knights either.”

“That’s because he told me not to,” Dean says.

“As though he expected you to follow _that_ order,” Sam says. When Dean doesn’t answer, Sam sighs. “I am worried too, Dean. We all are.”

“Well, I don’t remember anything, and everyone being worried isn’t going to change that,” Dean says. Sam looks like he wants to argue, so Dean says, “If it’ll make Father feel better, I’ll go train with the knights in the afternoon. All right?”

Sam sighs again. “All right. But if there’s anything we can do—”

“I’ll tell you,” Dean interrupts, rolling his eyes. “When I need a shoulder to cry on, rest assured you’ll be the first person I go to.”

Sam just shakes his head. “I’m going out for a ride. Would you like to join me?”

“No. You go ahead.”

Sam hesitates a moment before getting up and leaving the room. Dean lets out a relieved huff when he’s gone, unsure why he feels so strange around his family.

Maybe he _is_ a little traumatized.

For one thing, he hasn’t really been able to stop thinking about Bluebird ever since he ran into him a few days ago—he’s been unable to decide whether or not he wants to actually find the guy.

When he got back to the castle that day, he’d pretty much already forgotten him. But Dean’s been having nightmares about fire surrounding him, burning him up inside and out, ever since he got escaped from captivity. The nightmares always felt unending, and Dean never could find a way to snap out of them. After seeing Bluebird, his nightmares have been ending early with a flash of ice-blue eyes, eyes that send a jolt of _something_ through Dean, propelling him back into consciousness.

“Garth?” Dean calls hopefully, because sometimes Garth isn’t in the adjoining room, busy running errands elsewhere.

His luck is in today, though, because Garth comes barging in the door a moment later. “Yeah!” he says, eyes blinking rapidly, and Dean has the sense that his manservant was just napping.

“I want you to go into the city and find a guy with blue eyes and dark hair. He’s thin, a little malnourished-looking. And a little shorter than I am,” Dean says.

Garth nods, turning to leave, but then he spins around and asks, “Wait, why? Do you want me to bring him to you?”

“No. Just find out who he is and come back here. Don’t let him know you’re looking for him,” Dean says.

“Uh huh,” Garth says slowly. “Okay, then. Anything else?”

“That’s all. You can go.”

After Garth takes his leave, Dean sits in silence for a long time, reliving those nightmares, picturing the blue eyes that draw him out. It’s impossible for Bluebird to have had anything to do with his capture or his escape, right?

Eventually, he decides to discuss this with the court physician—Bobby might have something more to tell him about his condition if Father is not around.

About a minute later, Dean is admitted into Bobby’s quarters and ushered into a seat next to a large cauldron. When he looks inside, he sees some dark liquid, bubbling sluggishly. Bobby comes back from closing the door and grabs a large spoon to stir.

“What _is_ that?” Dean asks, frowning. It doesn’t have an offensive odor, but it looks disgusting.

“I am making a paste that helps in the mending of broken bones,” Bobby replies. “When it’s done, it’ll be too thick to stir, and I’ll have to scoop it out. It’s unpleasant,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. “But that’s not what you came here for.”

“No,” Dean confirms. “I just wanted to… to talk about the dreams I’ve been having.”

“Ah, the dreams of fire. Has anything changed?” Bobby asks, lifting the spoon and watching the goopy mixture drip off it and back into the cauldron.

“Only a small thing,” Dean says. “I told you before that I couldn’t bring myself to wake up in these dreams. But now, the dreams are cut short by a set of blue eyes.” Bobby doesn’t comment, catching a bit of the black stuff on his forefinger and licking at it quickly. Dean makes a disgusted face as he continues, “The change happened after I saw a boy—or man, rather—with blue eyes.”

“Mhmm,” Bobby grunts, dropping the spoon back into the cauldron and turning around to pick at an assortment of bottles on a shelf.

“Well?” Dean says impatiently as Bobby locates the bottle he wants and turns back to pour its contents into the cauldron. A small puff of smoke rises, smelling _very_ bitter, and Dean coughs.

“What do _you_ think it means?” Bobby asks, taking up the stirring again.

“I don’t know. Why do you think I’m here?” Dean says, covering his nose and mouth with a sleeve.

“Well, I’m not you. I don’t know what significance blue eyes could have for you,” Bobby says. “Does it feel like a memory?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“I maintain that your memory loss is due to the trauma of your capture. Maybe seeing a man with blue eyes triggered something in the memories that you repressed, and your subconscious mind is attempting to access those memories.”

That makes a lot of sense, Dean thinks. “But why can’t I just remember?”

“The mind of man is complex,” Bobby answers. “It’s not straightforward, like the rest of the body. If a bone is broken, I know how to set it and how to help it grow back together again. If a man has been stabbed in the gut, I know how to stop the bleeding and nurse him back to health. But the mind… it is impossible to look inside someone’s mind with science, and so it is difficult to cure the mind.”

“But you could do it with magic,” Dean says.

Bobby stiffens. “I certainly couldn’t. I’ve never practiced magic.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you, personally. Just—in general.”

“Theoretically, I suppose one could,” Bobby says carefully, stirring slower.

Dean lets his arm fall away from his face, and it doesn’t smell so bad, now. Then he says, “You know, I heard that one of Michael’s garrisons was almost lost completely—only five of two hundred soldiers made it home, and they only arrived nine days before I did.”

“Yes, that is all true.”

“I just don’t think it makes sense that I could have made it out on my own where two hundred men failed,” Dean says. “I talked to the survivors myself, and they said that they searched the dungeons at Delmonica without ever finding me. I don’t… understand. I don’t understand how I could have escaped when they couldn’t even _find_ me.”

Bobby stops stirring, pulling the spoon from the mixture and waiting until most of the muck has fallen off before placing it to the side, but Dean knows that he’s listening, that he’s paying attention.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I want you to be completely honest with me. Could magic have been involved?” Dean asks.

Bobby sighs heavily. “Dean, your father—”

“I _know_. Just—just be honest,” Dean says.

“It is definitely a possibility,” Bobby finally says. “Magic could have been used to suppress your memory. It could have rendered you invisible when the soldiers did a search of the dungeons. It could even have been used to free you from your prison. Magic can do a great deal.”

Frowning, Dean says, “I thought so, too. What if one of the soldiers helped me escape with magic and then wiped my memory of it because he didn’t want to be executed by my father?”

“That’s possible,” Bobby allows. “It’s highly unlikely, however. I don’t think there are many magic users left in Winchester, much less in the military. Can you imagine how dangerous a place the army would be, for a practitioner of magic? There is so little privacy between soldiers.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a sigh. Shaking his head, he says, “I worry that my captors could have gotten useful information about Winchester before sending me back here under compulsion. Is that possible?”

“Again, yes,” Bobby says. “As I said, magic can do a great deal.”

“Do you know any wizards, then? Sorcerers?” Dean asks.

“Certainly not,” Bobby replies.

“I won’t tell Father,” Dean says. “I just need to know. If they could compel me to forget, to return to Winchester, what if they’ve compelled me to do something disastrous?”

“Nonsense,” Bobby says. “You’ve been here for weeks, and nothing disastrous has happened.”

“Do you know any people who practice magic or not? They don’t have to be in Winchester, you know,” Dean says.

“I don’t,” Bobby says firmly. “Please just relax, Dean. You’re home, and you’re safe.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Dean says, but he isn’t sure how much he believes it. From the look on Bobby’s face, he knows how Dean feels. But he doesn’t comment, so Dean thanks him and leaves.

* * *

Castiel stares up at the wooden roof just three yards above his head, slanting up toward the middle of their house. He’s lying on his back, hands under his head, feet hanging off the edge of his cot because he outgrew it four or five years ago.

It’s still hard to believe that he’s _really_ home. His mother had rejoiced when he turned up. Balthazar had simply looked shocked.

Apparently, the last members of his garrison had made it back safely and reported Castiel among the dead. He wasn’t surprised, and he made Balthazar promise not to mention his return to anyone—Castiel is content to be assumed dead. He needs time to recover, and his safe return would raise questions.

Balthazar had asked if Castiel had had anything to do with the prince’s escape, but Castiel had denied it—if anyone learned that the prince had escaped through magical means, then Castiel would be at risk. He told his mother and brother years and years ago that he’d lost the ability to do anything magical, and they’d breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Since Castiel’s return, Balthazar has seemed suspicious of him, but he’s said nothing outright, and Castiel doesn’t mind leaving him to his deductions.

He thinks that he would like to see Uriel, Inias, Samandriel, and Heston again, but it’s easier to stay “dead.” Neater.

It’s been a full week since Castiel got home, but he’s hardly set foot outside the house at all. For the first four days, his feet were simply too sore for walking anywhere outdoors. It was a pain to even get out of the loft and go down the rickety wooden stairs to the kitchen. He felt much better on the fifth day, and he thinks he’s pretty much recovered by now, though there’s still the faintest echo of an ache in his bones when he moves.

But aching or not, he should go downstairs for lunch at least. So he gets out of bed, careful not to hit his head on the roof, and turns to the chest that holds his clothing. He selects a blue tunic and tugs it over his head before going down to the ground floor.

Mother is in the cooking area, chopping up some vegetables, and when she hears Castiel hit the ground, she says over her shoulder, “I forgot to buy ginger while I was at the market this morning—could you fetch some for me?”

“Isn’t Balthazar around?” Castiel asks, looking around hopefully, but his brother is nowhere to be seen.

“No, he’s gone. Apparently there was a training session this morning,” Mother replies. “He and the others have been added to a new garrison, one that needed the replacements more, he was told.”

“If you’re hinting that I should rejoin the ranks—”

“I’m not. I’m really not,” Mother says quickly. “I don’t think I’d be able to bear it if I had to watch both of you leave like that again, not knowing whether or not you’d return. Especially after you almost didn’t return this time.”

Castiel bites back the sudden guilt—he has nothing to feel guilty for. It wasn’t his fault that he was in one of the garrisons sent to search for the prince, after all.

“You said you needed ginger?” Castiel asks instead, starting back up the stairs because if he’s to go outside, he’ll want his coat.

“Yes. Thank you, Castiel.”

Castiel dons his tan coat, and as he shrugs into it, he notices his red scarf—it’d been underneath the coat. After a moment of deliberation, he wraps the scarf around his neck, because he doesn’t know how cold it is outside.

“I’ll be right back,” he says to his mother as he goes toward the front door, money pouch tucked into an inner pocket of his coat. She just waves absentmindedly in his direction, so he leaves, intending to make this errand as short as possible.

He’s not _afraid_ , of course, but the encounter with Dean on the way to the capital had shaken him more than a little—especially Dean’s usage of Alastair’s nickname for him. It was probably just an unconscious association, some remnant of his memory that surfaced when he saw Castiel, but the thought of _anyone_ referring to Castiel as “Bluebird” sends shivers down his spine. He hates that a single word can affect him so much, but he can’t help it.

At the market, Castiel buys three pieces of fresh ginger root, counting out the correct amount of coins for the vendor.

He’s only just started back toward home when he hears his name being called by an unfamiliar voice. It makes his heart pound—has he been recognized? It’s not common knowledge that he’s “dead,” as the records are solely kept by the military, so only close friends of Mother’s—few and far between—would know that he’s supposed to be dead.

The voice calls for him again, so he turns his head, hesitant. The third time the voice calls his name, he sees the man, and thankfully, his face is unfamiliar. But then how does he know Castiel’s name?

He doesn’t understand until the young man points behind him, and when Castiel follows the direction he’s pointing in, his eyes land on Dean— _Dean_ —in the crowd, smiling a little. Castiel can feel his eyes widening, his legs frozen in place for just a moment as the recognition sinks in.

Then he’s backing up, and in the second it takes for him to turn around, he thinks he catches sight of the prince’s face falling a little.

Castiel’s scarcely taken five steps before a hand lands on his shoulder, and the thin man is there, standing right behind him. “Castiel,” the man says, and Castiel wants nothing more than to run away.

Maybe Dean’s recovered his memory. If he has, he must know just how much magic Castiel used to free him. What if Dean exposes him? What if he’s already told the king? Maybe he wanted to arrest Castiel himself. Castiel has heard the horror stories of mages being burned alive at the stake for spells as simple as helping with household chores. What will Dean think of Castiel’s manipulation of his memory?

But Dean’s already coming right at him, and there’s nowhere for Castiel to hide. If they found him and learned his name, they could certainly find out where he lived.

“What do you want?” Castiel asks the man whose hand is still clamped down on his shoulder.

It’s as though they know that he’s a flight risk.

But then the prince is right in front of him, not two feet separating them, and the attendant backs away, releasing Castiel as he does. Dean smiles a little, studying Castiel intently. It makes him acutely uncomfortable, and he licks his lips, trying to think of something to say.

“I told you I’d find you,” Dean finally says, voice lowered.

Castiel swallows hard. “That you did,” he responds evenly.

“Well. Garth, you’ve wanted to enlist, haven’t you?” Dean says, and it takes a moment for Castiel to understand that Garth is the name of his attendant. “Consider yourself relieved of all duties starting tomorrow morning. Castiel is going to be my new manservant.”

Castiel had lowered his eyes, but they shoot up to Dean’s now, and he’s aware that his mouth has dropped open, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. “S-sire?” he says, sure that he misheard. He _must_ have misheard.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not without pay, so you can even support your family—if you have one, that is,” the prince says, and Castiel puts some effort into closing his mouth.

“B-but I—I have no experience,” Castiel says, thinking quickly. “Surely the Prince of Winchester could afford better than a bumbling fool for a manservant.”

“Bumbling fool? I doubt that,” Dean says with a dazzling smile, eyes amused. “Accompany me back to the castle.”

Oh, no. Oh, Castiel can’t possibly refuse a direct order from a member of the royal family, can he? “I have some food to deliver to my mother,” he blurts out. “And I think I’d much rather stay home. I’ve no experience in the service of others.”

“It’s not that hard,” Dean says. “Right, Garth?”

“Not hard at all,” Garth confirms.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Dean concludes, as though five words can determine Castiel’s destiny. Then again, with the power at Dean’s disposal, a single word from him could end Castiel’s life, not to mention alter it. “I give you leave to bring the food back to your mother,” Dean says magnanimously.

It’s preposterous. Unthinkable. “Thank you, Highness,” Castiel says.

“I’ll expect you to report to me at the castle by sundown. Do I have your word?”

Does Castiel have any other choice?

“Of course, sire.”

* * *

“I think that went rather well,” Dean comments a few hours later, looking out the window. The sun is beginning its descent behind the mountains, but Castiel hasn’t shown his face yet.

“If I may…” Garth starts.

“Go ahead.”

“You should have given Castiel a choice in the matter. He clearly didn’t want to come,” Garth says.

Dean turns and rolls his eyes at his servant. “What’s the point in being a prince if I can’t even hire my own manservant?” he says, and Garth has nothing to say to that. He’s getting what he wants too, after all—he’s wanted to enlist in the army ever since he turned eighteen, but Dean has kept him around, unwilling to break in a new manservant.

For Castiel, though, Dean is willing to make an exception.

Looking back out at the courtyard, Dean spots Castiel walking toward the castle doors hesitantly.

“Shall I go fetch him?” Garth offers.

“No, don’t. I want to see how he handles the guards at the door,” Dean says, smiling a little.

* * *

“What is your purpose here?” one of the two guards at the door asks.

Castiel holds back a sigh and says, “I’m here to see Prince Dean.”

“Why?”

“I’m his new manservant.”

The guard laughs. “I doubt that. Garth has been serving the prince for years. Why would the prince need a new manservant?”

“I don’t know, but I can ask him for you,” Castiel answers.

“Oh, this is a funny one,” the other guard says to his companion, gesturing toward Castiel.

Annoyed, Castiel steps closer to the guards and gestures for them to lean in. When they only give him suspicious looks, he sighs, looks around the otherwise empty courtyard, and says, “I have a secret message for the prince. If you could bring it to him, I’d appreciate it.”

“Secret message, eh?” the first guard says as he leans in.

The second guard does the same, and Castiel says in the Old Tongue, “Believe Me.” The guards blink at him, confused for a moment, and then he says in English, “Will you let me in or not, then?”

“The prince needs a manservant,” the second guard says with a shrug, and steps back to open the door.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, bowing his head briefly as he passes by and enters the castle.

Of course, once he’s inside, he’s lost—how is he to find Prince Dean’s quarters when there’s not a person in sight? He’s inside a cavernous entrance hall, with archways on either side, along with two sets of staircases leading to upper floors. A large set of double doors is directly opposite him, mirroring the ones he just came through. He has no clue as to which path will take him to Dean.

He considers going back outside to ask the guards, but it’d be risky, seeing as he used his influence on them not a full minute ago.

“You there! What are you doing?” a male voice calls out, and Castiel turns in time to see a boy coming his way, carrying a large box. Judging from his attire and the fact that he is carrying this box himself, Castiel deduces that he is a servant.

“I am here to see Prince Dean,” Castiel says. “Unfortunately, he did not tell me how to find him.”

“Why did Dean ask you to come?” the boy asks, and when Castiel gets a closer look at his face, he notes that the boy can’t be a day over sixteen. But more startling is the fact that the boy has… abnormal features. Castiel has seen people like him in pictures—people from the Orient, he thinks they were called—but he has never seen one in real life.

Reminding himself that it’s rude to stare, Castiel says, “I am to be his new manservant.”

“I didn’t know Dean was looking,” the boy says thoughtfully. He chews his lip for a moment before coming to a decision. “I can take you to his quarters, if you’d like.”

Castiel would most certainly _not_ like that, but he has orders from a prince who could have Castiel’s entire family slaughtered if he so wished. Castiel would like to believe that he wouldn’t, but he’d rather not take any chances, so he nods to accept the boy’s offer. “I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Follow me, then,” the boy says, walking past Castiel and toward the staircase on the right. “My name is Kevin—I serve Prince Sam. What’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

He offers no more information, but it doesn’t seem to bother Kevin, who says as they start up the stairs, “Have you ever met Sam in person?” Castiel shakes his head, so Kevin says, “Well, he’s very tall— _very_ tall. You’re pretty tall too, but he must be… at least a hand’s length taller than you. Anyway, I just got back from the royal tailor, and he complained to me about the extra amount of material that had to go into the prince’s clothing for at least twenty minutes. It was exhausting.”

“I can imagine,” Castiel says.

At the top of the steps, they turn and go down a hallway. As they reach the end of that hallway and start up another flight of steps, Kevin says, “Are you going to ask me, then?”

“Ask you what?”

“Where I’m from,” Kevin replies. “That’s usually the first question.”

“I initially assumed you were from the Orient,” Castiel says. “However, you spoke English far too well for someone who had to learn it as a second language, so I decided that you were from here—your parents, perhaps, were the ones from the Orient.”

Kevin pauses on the steps and turns toward Castiel to say, “You are the first person who’s made that connection on his own. No one else takes that into account.”

“It was only logical.”

“Mhmm,” Kevin hums, and they continue on their way.

Less than a minute later, they reach a wide hallway, and Kevin stops in front of a set of double doors.

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

“You’re welcome,” Kevin says. “Oh, and in case you didn’t know: knock, and then wait until he says you can enter.” Castiel nods, and Kevin flashes a bright smile at him. “Good luck.”

He goes the rest of the way down the hall and turns left at the end of it, leaving Castiel alone. Taking a deep breath, Castiel lifts his fist and knocks on the door three times, steadily.

“Come in,” he hears, muffled through the door.

So he steps into the room, and the first thing he sees is a dining table, twice as big as the one his family has at home. Dean is sitting at the head of it, leaning back in his chair. Castiel ducks his head briefly in deference to his new master before taking in the rest of the room.

There is a large bed in the chamber to the left, as well as a vacant area beyond it, possibly for dressing or bathing—Castiel has heard that the royals bathe in their chambers. Several long, thin windows are on the wall opposite Castiel, and judging from the position of this room, they should provide a view of the courtyard. A wardrobe is along the far left wall, and several cabinets are placed on the wall to the right of the dining table as well as the wall opposite Dean’s frankly massive bed—it’s quite possibly four times as wide and nearly twice as long as Castiel’s cot at home.

“I’d almost expected you to defy me, after the trouble you took to try to get away from me in the market,” Dean says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He makes a vague waving motion, and Castiel interprets it to be an order to close the door, which he does promptly.

“I would never defy a prince,” Castiel says.

“Yet you would deny a prince your name.”

“Only because of our difference in rank,” Castiel insists, even though it’s a lie. “I am only a commoner—my name is of next to no importance.”

“A commoner, you say, yet your name is hardly common, is it? Cas-tee-el,” Dean says, enunciating each syllable clearly. “Castiel. _Cas_. It’s a peculiar name.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I like it,” Dean says with a satisfied smile. After a pause, he says, “Cas, come here.”

Castiel obeys, and as he nears Dean’s side, Dean gets to his feet. The prince lifts a hand, and Castiel shrinks back, memories of knives rending flesh vivid in his mind’s eye.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks, curious, and Castiel shakes his head wordlessly. “Well, hold still. I just…” Dean’s hand stretches out, slower this time, curling behind Castiel’s neck and pulling him closer. Castiel instinctively closes his eyes, but Dean says, “No—keep your eyes open.”

“Why?”

“Just do as I say.”

Castiel hesitates a moment, gathering himself, before opening his eyes again. He’s unable to hold Dean’s eyes for long, letting his gaze drop to the ground.

“No,” Dean says, letting out an exasperated huff. “ _Look_ at me.”

Castiel takes a deep breath and looks back up at Dean, fixing his eyes on Dean’s forehead because it’s easier than looking into Dean’s eyes. It’s utterly disconcerting, having Dean so close to him again, one hand curled possessively at the nape of Castiel’s neck. Dean had held his head still like this one night, eyes fixed intently on his as he used his other hand to drive a knife slowly into Castiel’s gut, and it takes every ounce of willpower Castiel has not to shove the prince away now.

At long last, Dean backs up, hand dropping away from Castiel’s neck, and Castiel takes a step back, putting some much-needed space between them. Then he says, “May I ask what all that was about?”

Dean sighs, a soft, subdued sound. “I can’t explain it. There’s—something. Something in your eyes that I…” he shakes his head. “Oh, never mind. Get me out of this shirt. I’ve been advised to wear red at supper tonight.”

Castiel blinks, surprised. “What, you can’t remove a shirt on your own?”

“Why on earth would I do that? That’s what _you’re_ for,” Dean says. “Now get to work.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows but steps in closer to undo the buttons on Dean’s shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry I've been MIA for so long. I think it's been almost two months since I last updated ANYTHING, here. I wish I could give you a better reason, but it's just been the usual thing. Work, studying, blah. I've been pretty stressed out lately. One team member left two months ago, and another team member (the manager who hired me, actually) just left a week and a half ago, so it's been pretty rough.
> 
> And second, for readers of this fic, I am EXTREMELY sorry that it's been over a year since Chapter 2. I'm gonna try to update consistently. I've built up a bit of a lead, but we'll see if I can keep it up 'til the end.
> 
> Sorry if this chapter feels screwy or weird, idk. I feel a bit out of practice at the moment x.x

Not two days after Castiel entered the royal household as Prince Dean’s manservant, a tournament was announced, to take place exactly one week hence. The week between the announcement and the tournament was miserable for Castiel—all the extra training that the prince undertook meant extra work for Castiel, buffing and rebuffing armor, mending mail, and sharpening swords.

And now, in the dead of night, on the eve of the tournament, Castiel is polishing Dean’s armor by candlelight. He would use magic, but that would be reckless—it would arouse suspicion if he accomplished more than could possibly be done in one night. And Castiel is, after all, the master of _not_ arousing suspicion.

Dean thinks that Castiel is scrawny, not strong. It isn’t surprising, given the time Castiel spent underfed and tortured, followed immediately by the arduous journey he had to make on foot in that condition, from Delmonica to Winchester. He still has yet to regain the muscle mass he had before, as a soldier.

Castiel has not done anything to disabuse the prince of that notion. The more invisible he is, the safer he is—that is the best way to keep hidden, with the gifts that he has. It was difficult, having to tamp down his instincts all his life, but he has never been more thankful for his years of practice hiding in the military than he is now.

Shaking his head, Castiel sets down the vambrace and sighs. He is far too close to Dean, now. One slip-up could lead to being beheaded, or burnt alive.

Then there’s a soft sound, coming from the adjoining room—Dean’s room.

Castiel stills, listening intently. It’s a squeaking noise, perhaps some rustling. He thinks he hears something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper, and he gets to his feet, indecisive.

It would be intrusive to enter the prince’s room while he was unconscious. Then again, the wall between the prince’s chamber and his manservant’s is built thinner than other walls, surely so that a manservant can better anticipate his master’s needs in the middle of the night.

All goes abruptly silent, though, and just as Castiel is about to sit back down, he hears—

“Cas? Castiel!”

He gets to his feet and quickly exits his room, crossing the few feet between his door and Dean’s and entering quietly.

The bed is in disarray. Several of the furs have been kicked onto the floor, and what covers haven’t been overturned completely are rumpled, untidy. In the middle of the disorder, the prince is sitting up, chest and arms bare, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.

“Are you all right, sire?” Castiel asks hesitantly.

Dean looks shaken, distressed, eyes wild. Yet his voice, when he speaks, is level. “I’m fine. Come to me.”

Castiel nods and crosses the room in silence, stopping just shy of the edge of the bed. Unsatisfied, Dean snatches his arm, pulling him closer, and Castiel’s limbs lock up instinctively, stiff, conditioned to expect pain. He silently curses himself for his reaction, but thankfully Dean doesn’t seem to notice.

Then Dean’s fingers thread into Castiel’s hair and pull him closer, tugging backward a little to keep his face upturned. Swallowing hard, Castiel clenches his jaw and keeps his eyes down, waiting. The prince did this to him once before, on Castiel’s first day in the castle, and he still has yet to learn what the prince hopes to achieve from this.

“Eyes on me,” Dean commands.

“Sire—”

“ _Eyes on me_ ,” Dean repeats, impatient.

Castiel hesitates for only one beat before lifting his gaze, resting it on Dean’s nose, forehead, temple, anywhere but his eyes.

What if Dean remembers?

Perhaps his memory is incomplete, and all he remembers of Castiel are some vague impressions of his face. No—not just his face, but his _eyes_. That would explain why he wants Castiel to look at him.

Bracing himself, Castiel meets the prince’s gaze fully, because he might as well get this over with. He doesn’t want to live in fear of somehow invoking Dean’s memories of those nights in that Delmonican prison.

Dean’s eyes are lost, searching, almost despairing, and Castiel feels—sorry for him.

He wonders whether Dean even knows what he’s looking for.

At long last, Dean’s hands drop away from Castiel’s head and wrist, and Castiel gratefully takes two steps back, puts himself a safe distance away from Dean.

“Are you all right, sire?” he asks again, willing his tone to stay even.

“Yes, that’ll be all. You may go back to bed,” Dean says.

 _Bed_. If only. But aloud, Castiel replies, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Good night, then,” Castiel says, and leaves the room.

* * *

The next morning, Castiel goes into Dean’s chambers to bring his breakfast and wake him, but he finds the bed empty and the man beside one of the windows, looking out onto the square.

“Morning, sire,” he says, setting a platter of meats and cheeses down on the table.

Dean doesn’t move away from the window and doesn’t respond verbally, either.

“I’ve brought you your breakfast,” Castiel says, staying beside the table. “Sire?”

“Yes,” Dean says, slowly turning back toward the room. He seems completely comfortable in only his smallclothes, chest bare, and Castiel takes care not to let his eyes linger on the scars that mark his master’s torso, keeps his attention on Dean’s face. Because of this, he sees the flicker of regret that passes through the prince’s eyes when they land on him—what is that about? Then Dean says, “I… apologize if I frightened you last night. I woke from a disturbing dream, and I—wasn’t myself.”

“No harm done, sire,” Castiel says lightly. “I wasn’t frightened. I only worried whether you’d be rested enough for the tournament today.”

“The tournament,” Dean scoffs. “That’s nothing.”

Castiel takes only a moment to deliberate before saying, under his breath but still loud enough for Dean to hear, “Arrogant.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. “I _heard_ that,” he says.

“Well if you hadn’t heard it, it would’ve been pointless for me to say it, wouldn’t it?” Castiel replies.

Dean stares at him in plain disbelief. “I _knew_ it was all false deference before,” he finally says. “I just _knew_ you were going to be trouble.”

Castiel allows himself a small smirk. “If you’d truly known, you never would’ve hired me, would you?”

“Watch your tongue, or I’ll have you put in the stocks,” Dean says, less amused.

Castiel concedes, lowering his head and gesturing for Dean to take a seat at the table. He intends to step slightly out of line, but not so much that he’ll require discipline.

“I’ve no appetite,” Dean says, turning away from the table. “Bring me my battle armor. Dress me.”

Castiel nods and retreats from the room, returning to his own quarters to retrieve Dean’s armor.

He has behaved himself perfectly well in the past week, but last night has confirmed to him that some part of Dean suspects his involvement in Dean’s return from Delmonica. It is of utmost importance, then, that Castiel leave Dean with an impression that he could not possibly have rescued him. Some impertinence, coupled with slight incompetence, should suffice.

Castiel reenters Dean’s chambers not a minute later and finds that Dean hasn’t moved an inch. Castiel sets the armor down on the table and crosses the room to Dean’s wardrobe to select a tunic and some breeches for him.

“Color, Highness?” Castiel asks.

“Can’t say that it matters,” Dean says. “It’ll be under my mail, and I’ll be wearing armor over the lot of it.”

“Of course,” Castiel says.

He returns to the table with tunic and breeches in hand and holds them out for Dean’s approval. The prince nods, so Castiel steps closer, setting the pants down and holding up the shirt. Dean lifts his arms, and Castiel slips the sleeves over his hands, gets Dean’s head through the neck-hole.

“If I may,” he says, quietly, “what was your dream about?”

Dean stiffens, but Castiel pretends not to notice, straightening the tunic out with three firm tugs. Then he gets the breeches from the table and takes a knee, holding them out for Dean to step into.

“You were missing for a length of time, and we all feared you were dead,” Castiel says. “Was it about that time?”

Dean looks at Castiel sharply, one leg in his pants and the other not. “What do _you_ know about my time in captivity?”

“Only what I’ve heard from others in the city,” Castiel replies. “I was told that you were captured, and that you made a miraculous escape.”

This seems to put Dean at ease, and he chuckles as he puts his other foot into the breeches. “ _Everything_ I do is miraculous,” he says, tugging the pants up to his waist on his own. He stops there, though, and Castiel is left to do up the ties on his breeches and thread his belt through the belt loops.

“Yet you protest when I say that you’re arrogant,” Castiel says, not even bothering to lower his voice this time as he fastens Dean’s belt and turns to pick up Dean’s chainmail.

Dean’s expression betrays a mixture of amusement and surprise. “You’re completely irreverent, aren’t you?” he says.

“Not _completely_ , of course,” Castiel responds.

“Yet you’ve neglected to address me properly more than once just this morning.”

“Sorry, _sire_. How remiss of me,” Castiel says, lifting Dean’s mail to help him into it.

“That was the least apologetic apology I’ve ever heard,” Dean says. “I ought to punish you for it.”

“I really am sorry,” Castiel says, only just holding back a smile. “It won’t happen again. Sire.”

Dean just shoots him a skeptical look as Castiel begins fitting him into his armor, one piece at a time.

A short while later, Castiel says, “I’d love to hear the story of your escape, someday.” It is good to show mild curiosity—being too interested would be suspicious, but then, so would having no interest at all. Best to aim for some middle ground.

“Someday, perhaps,” Dean says, noncommittal.

When all the armor is in place, Castiel presents Dean’s gloves to him—this part Dean typically does on his own.

“What would you say,” Dean says abruptly, “if I told you that I could not remember the escape?”

Castiel forgets himself for a moment and just stares openly, startled that Dean would admit this to a servant. But Dean is looking at him expectantly, so it is clear that Castiel must come up with an answer.

At length, he says, “They say that experiencing great trauma can cause the mind to forget.”

A furrow appears between Dean’s eyebrows. “Who says?”

Castiel shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just—a thing that I’ve heard.” After a pause, he asks, “Is it true, then? That you don’t remember your escape?”

Instead of answering, Dean takes the gloves from Castiel and pulls them on, first right, then left. Castiel guesses that the conversation is over, so he crosses the room to retrieve Dean’s cape from the wardrobe. When he returns, he throws the cape around Dean and pulls the ties together, deftly fastening them at the hollow of Dean’s neck.

“Are you experienced in this?” Dean asks.

Castiel blinks at him, not understanding his meaning. “Pardon?”

“Putting armor on,” Dean clarifies.

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I’ve put your armor on several times now, sire,” Castiel replies, lips curling up at the corners.

“But even the first time, your motions were practiced,” Dean says, ignoring Castiel’s cheek. “Had you put armor on before?”

“I’d seen it done many times,” Castiel says.

“Soldier in the family?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel hesitates, realizing that he is treading in dangerous waters. After all, if Dean decides to look deeper into Castiel’s family, and his background, he will surely discover that Balthazar was one of the sole survivors who returned from Delmonica, and that Castiel was supposed to have died.

“Friend,” Castiel finally says.

Dean nods, seemingly content to leave his questioning at that, and Castiel holds back a sigh of relief, backing away from the prince and presenting his sword to him, hilt-first. Dean slides the sword into its sheath and shrugs his shoulders in a way that is now familiar to Castiel—the prince does this to reacquaint his body with the weight of the mail and armor.

“Come. Let’s go to the field.”

Castiel nods and passes Dean his helmet, taking up the shield and following his master out of the room.

* * *

The tournament passes surprisingly quickly. It culminates in a swordfight between Prince Dean and Sir Michael, and though it is a close fight, Dean prevails, as is to be expected. Castiel must admit that even he could not tell decisively whether Michael let Dean win—the general leads the most powerful of the Four Armies of Winchester, with good reason. He has proven his mettle on the battlefield and served King John for over two decades, so to believe that he would truly be unable to defeat a young prince seems—naïve.

Yet when Dean returns to the tent, he is grinning triumphantly, removing his gloves, preparing to go back out and acknowledge the crowd as the victor.

Clearly, he believes he was the true victor today.

“Congratulations, sire,” Castiel says.

“ _Told_ you it’d be no problem,” Dean replies flippantly, and Castiel has to bite his lip to keep silent.

Prince Sam enters the tent then, smiling widely. “Great fighting today, brother,” he says.

Dean shrugs. “Just the usual.”

“Oh, cut that out. I gave you a compliment. Take it,” Sam says, making Dean chuckle.

“I suppose you’re right. You never compliment me.”

“You should be grateful. If I did, you’d be even more insufferable than you are now.”

Castiel huffs a laugh at that, and Sam smiles at him.

“What, you think that’s funny?” Dean says, turning to Castiel.

“Of course not, sire,” Castiel says, but he is still smiling, and he doesn’t bother trying to go back to a straight face—it should be all right, given Sam is the one teasing Dean.

“Don’t tell me Sam’s gotten to you already,” Dean says. Castiel tilts his head, inquiring, and Dean continues, “He’s always conspiring against me. You can’t believe a word he says about me.”

“Lies,” Sam says. “I speak nothing but the truth.”

The tent flap lifts before Dean can retort, and Sir Michael steps inside. “The crowd awaits you, sire.” Eyes landing on Sam, the general adds, “I should have known the reason for your delay was the king’s ward.”

“Yes, you should have,” Dean says, tossing his gloves at Castiel without warning.

Castiel snatches them out of the air, instinctive, and immediately curses himself for it—Michael’s eyes had skipped right over him before, filing him away as just another part of the environment, but now they land on Castiel with interest, curiosity.

“The boy has good reflexes,” he comments. “Where is Garth?”

“I didn’t tell you?” Dean says, frowning. “I got a new manservant.”

Michael’s gaze shifts away, back to Dean, and Castiel feels relieved. “I’m surprised,” Michael says. “You seemed loath to part with him.”

“Good servants are hard to come by,” Dean says.

That didn’t seem to be a concern when Dean practically plucked Castiel right off the street, but Castiel chooses not to point that out.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Michael says with a nod. “Well—come. As I said, your people await you.”

* * *

After the tournament, there is a feast, as there always is. But for once, Dean doesn’t feel much like celebrating. He’s distinctly uncomfortable, and no amount of fidgeting helps. His gloves and tunic and breeches don’t seem to fit right, feel abrasive to his skin, and all the idle chatter at the dining table only annoys him.

Finally, he gives it up for a lost cause and excuses himself early, leaving the celebration with Castiel trailing behind him.

In his chamber, Castiel attends to him, removing first his cape, then his tunic and breeches. After lighting the fireplace, he returns to Dean’s side and asks, “Is there anything else you require?”

“No. That’ll be all,” Dean says. Clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, he adds, “You did well, today.” Though there is no shift in Castiel’s expression, Dean doesn’t miss the way his manservant’s shoulders rise slightly, the way he straightens up, posture tense.

“Good night, sire,” Castiel says, bowing before backing away and leaving the room.

Dean watches him go, waits until the door has swung shut before lifting his hand. The palm tingles where it came into contact with Castiel’s tunic, and not for the first time, he wonders what it _is_ about this young man that affects him so. He often finds himself wanting to reach out and touch, inexplicable. This isn’t some _carnal_ desire—at least, Dean doesn’t think it is. He certainly hasn’t ever lusted after a man before.

And then there is the way Castiel shies away, like he’s _afraid_. Dean knows well enough that some commoners fear royalty, but Castiel’s fear seems to go beyond that.

Sighing, Dean climbs into his bed and looks up at the canopy.

He doesn’t want to sleep.

Just _thinking_ about the nightmare from last night is enough to make him shudder. There had been knives, hooks, thin trails of dark blood rolling down a bare chest. And Dean— _Dean_ had been wielding the blades, carving into this man without remorse.

He swears that the man’s face had been nondescript, unfamiliar, at the beginning of the dream, but at the end, just before he woke, he looked up, and while he cannot remember the rest of the face, he does remember a pair of familiar cerulean eyes, boring into his soul defiantly, without fear, without anger, without judgment, silently, terrifyingly accepting of the horror that Dean inflicted upon his body.

Those eyes—he _knows_ that they are the very same eyes that woke him from all his previous nightmares, the ones of searing flames.

He’d thought, after waking, that they were Castiel’s again. The dreams of fire had only started ending early after Dean first saw Castiel, after all. But as before, Dean could find no fire in Castiel’s eyes, none of the penetrating stare that haunts Dean’s nights, spearing through him to his very soul.

He wants to find the owner of those eyes, wants to find a way to release himself from their hold. But after last night’s dream, Dean can’t help but wonder, worry, whether he killed the man.

What if these dreams are calling to him from beyond the veil, retribution for a murder that Dean committed but no longer remembers? Dean has seen the sort of evil that magic can achieve, has seen a dead man rise from the grave to do a sorcerer’s bidding. If the owner of these blue eyes is truly beyond this world, how will Dean break free of his hold?

He still hasn’t brought the matter to his father, all too aware of what would ensue. Father is paranoid when it comes to magic, and Dean has no tangible proof that these dreams are the result of sorcery. Bobby has refused to confirm it, asserting that bad dreams are to be expected after a traumatic experience.

Dean wishes it were that simple, but some instinct tells him that this is far from simple.

* * *

It is dark by the time Castiel is dismissed from Dean’s chambers, but instead of retiring to the servant’s room that now belongs to him, he slips out of the castle and toward the lower village, where his mother lives—Balthazar is fully active again, so he has moved back into the barracks, with the other soldiers.

“Castiel!” Mother says, delighted at his return.

“I’m not here to stay,” he says, and her face falls a little. “Sorry,” he adds, but she ushers him into the room nevertheless, clearing a bench for him to sit.

“I’m just grateful that you’re well,” Mother says, sitting on a chair to his left and resting a warm hand on his shoulder.

Castiel sets a small pouch of coins on the table in front of him, his earnings for the past week. After all, he has no need for the money—he mends his own clothing, and he takes his meals in the castle kitchens, with the rest of the servants in the royal household.

“Oh, Castiel, I have no need for it.”

“Nonsense,” Castiel says. “You used to have two military stipends coming in. It’ll be far more difficult to live off only one. Take this.”

“I’m not _useless_ , son. I do still work as a seamstress,” Mother says, but Castiel will not be persuaded.

“You have more need for it than I do,” he insists. “Please.”

Mother sighs, pulls the pouch slightly closer to her end of the table. “Very well,” she says. Looking closely at his face, she says, “I still think it’d be best if you—if you left the prince’s service.”

“I can’t just _leave_ ,” Castiel says.

“I know. But—perhaps if he thought you incompetent, he would—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel cuts in. “He suspects nothing. He has no reason to look into my family background. I hardly think a prince would be interested in his servant’s family life, in any case.”

“Castiel, just consider it. You can’t know for certain that he will never try to discover more about you. It would be far safer if you found a way for him to dismiss you now, before it’s too late.”

“Lying to the prince is punishable, Mother,” Castiel says. “It isn’t worth it.”

“What if he discovers that you’ve been declared dead, Castiel? That’s lying, too. And upon your return, you should have reported to your superiors—the fact that you did not is an act of treason.”

“If anyone suspected that my return had to do with magic, I’d have been executed anyway. I saw the way you and Balthazar looked at me while I was recovering, Mother. I know what you were thinking, and the others would’ve thought it, too.”

Mother looks at him, assessing. “ _Did_ your return have to do with magic?” she asks at last, slowly, as though she’s afraid of the answer.

Castiel pauses, but he realizes a moment too late that his hesitance is answer enough. So he admits, heavily, “Yes. I wanted you to believe that it had left me, so that you’d think me safe, so you wouldn’t worry. But my magic has never left me, not in all these years.”

“Oh Castiel, my sweet boy,” Mother says softly, holding her arms out, and Castiel leans in, lets himself be drawn into his mother’s embrace. “You need to leave this place,” she says, voice shaking.

“Mother, I can’t—”

“You have to,” Mother interrupts. “There are places that are safe for people with magic—Puria to the south, Delmonica to the west, even—”

“But I—then I’d have to leave you, to leave Balthazar. How would that be any different from me dying?”

Mother pulls back to look at him sharply, reprimanding. “Don’t say such foolish things. Of _course_ that’s different. You’d be alive. We could visit you, or you could visit us.”

“Winchester is my home,” Castiel says.

“But it isn’t safe for you, here. Especially now that you’re to wait on the prince, night and day. What if there is an accident, and he discovers you?”

Castiel exhales slowly, reluctantly. “So you think I should make the prince fire me for incompetence.”

“Please, Castiel. It’s the only way I’ll be able to rest easy at night,” Mother says.

Castiel doesn’t look at Mother as he gets to his feet. “I should probably be getting back,” he says.

“ _Castiel_.”

Mother’s beseeching tone makes Castiel’s chest clench up. He does not want to leave his homeland, does not want to leave this place. How can he agree to do such a thing?

“I’ll think about it, Mother,” Castiel finally says, because that is all he can promise her.

Without waiting for a response, he hurries from the house and back up toward the castle.

A patrol passes him by as he heads up, but they do not stop him—it is not yet late enough for a lone wanderer to be deemed suspicious. Two girls are fetching water from a pump. A young man comes down from the castle, bearing a satchel. Up ahead of Castiel, he sees a female figure with a basket, walking away from him. As Castiel passes by the tavern, he hears raucous laughter coming from within.

 _Castiel_.

It’s a soft voice, sounding like it’s carried on the wind from far away, and Castiel stumbles, spinning around to search for the speaker. But all he sees are the guards that just passed him by, still marching onward. There’s no one else in sight.

_Castiel…_

The voice is slightly louder, echoing in Castiel’s head, and he frowns, carries on back toward the castle. He has never heard voices in his mind before, and he cannot imagine what it might mean now.

He eyes the man with the satchel as they pass each other, but the man doesn’t look at Castiel, hardly even seems to notice him. It mustn’t have been him, so who could it have been?

Perhaps Castiel has just gone mad.

_Castiel!_

Below. The third time his voice is uttered, Castiel is in the center of the courtyard, and he knows, _knows_ , that the speaker is somewhere beneath his feet. He doesn’t think long before deciding to find the source of the voice. If no one else can hear it, it must be something magical.

Maybe it’s a bad idea to follow the voice.

But Castiel’s mind is already made up, and he goes to some stairs that’ll take him downward, to the dungeons. Two guards are seated there, but they’ve fallen asleep, and Castiel supposes he does not blame them. To the best of his knowledge, the cells are all empty at present. There is no threat, down here.

Castiel tiptoes past the sleeping guards and moves to a gate, one that he hopes will take him farther down. He lets instinct guide him, trusting in his magic to know the way.

His faith pays off, and not a minute later, he finds himself at the top of a long staircase, descending into pitch black. Squinting into the dark, he grasps a torch on the wall, murmurs a quick spell to light it, and then cautiously follows the stone stairs downward, deep into the ground.

When he gets to the bottom, he follows a short tunnel that leads him straight onto a ledge—in the dark, he nearly steps right off the edge, and he stumbles back, almost drops the torch in astonishment. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they finally do, he sees rock formations in the distance—pillars hanging from up above, rising from down below.

It’s a massive cavern. From where he stands, Castiel cannot tell how far it extends, how far up or down it goes.

_Castiel. I’ve waited a long time for you, child._

The voice seems clearer here, stronger, and Castiel shivers. There’s magic in the air, thicker than he’s ever felt it before, and it makes him uneasy.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he used to hear stories about the last dragon, the Great Dragon, and how it was captured by King John many years ago, during the Purge. This must be the place where the dragon is kept—Castiel cannot think of any other reason for there to be a cavern of this side beneath the castle.

Perhaps it would be wise to leave, now.

“I know you’re here. I know you can hear me.”

The words echo lightly in the cave, and Castiel exhales shakily. Drawing himself up, he says, “I’m here. But if you want me to stay, show yourself.”

A whooshing sound follows Castiel’s words, followed by the beating of wings, and the torch in Castiel’s hand nearly flickers out.

Then the dragon is there, landing on a perch directly across from Castiel’s ledge, and maybe Castiel hadn’t ever taken the time to imagine what a dragon might look like, but somehow he is unsurprised by its dark hide, its leathery wings, its wise, old eyes.

It is as though he has always known what it looked like—as though they’ve met before, somehow.

“You are younger than I’d expected,” the dragon observes, golden eyes appearing to float in the gloom.

“Why did you summon me?” Castiel asks.

“You’ve started to consider leaving Winchester,” the dragon says. “I cannot allow that.”

Castiel frowns. “Why not?”

“There are a great many things that must be accomplished here, by your hand. A great destiny lies before you, Castiel, but it will not come to be if you leave this land.”

“What, do you know the future?”

The dragon shakes its head. “No one can _know_ the future, child. But some can glimpse ahead and see versions of what may come to pass.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that you have this ability,” Castiel says.

“I have many abilities, and I know many things. Your destiny and that of Prince Dean of Winchester are inextricably intertwined.”

Castiel scoffs at that—even the thought of it is preposterous. _Funny_ , almost. “He’s a prince. I’m a commoner. Nothing between us will ever be _intertwined_.”

“Yet the very first thing you did when you met him was rescue him.”

That makes the cynical smile fall from Castiel’s face. He swallows hard, fear rising up to choke him, because the dragon knows—it _knows_. How can it _know?_

“You lay in those woods, on the verge of unconsciousness, yet despite fear of being discovered, you used your magic not to spirit yourself away from there, but to speed the prince on his way.”

There’s no use denying it, so Castiel says, stiffly, “It was my mission to return the prince to Winchester.”

“Mission?” the dragon says softly, with something almost like _pity_. “That was no _mission_ , Castiel. That was instinct. You never once considered leaving him behind, because it was simply not an option. That was destiny, showing her hand to you for the first time. Even now, you do not wish to leave this land.”

“Because it’s my home,” Castiel insists. “Not because of some—some _destiny_.”

“That is what you might believe,” the dragon says. “Your destiny is far more important than you can possibly understand, as you stand before me now. In time, you will see that I am right.”

“What is it that I’m supposed to accomplish here, then?” Castiel asks. “Why is it so important, and how is it related to Prince Dean?”

The dragon deliberates for a moment, presumably deciding how much to share, and Castiel is about ready to turn away when the dragon says, “Can you imagine living in a land where you don’t have to hide your magic, don’t have to hide who you are?”

“You just said I couldn’t leave Winchester.”

“You’re a smart boy,” the dragon says. “I’m sure you understand my meaning.”

Castiel stares. “Magic is forbidden here. I doubt that will ever change while John remains king.” The dragon raises its eyebrows pointedly, and Castiel says, “Unless—you don’t mean—Prince Dean.”

“When he is king, he will usher in a new era,” the dragon says, wistful. “But there are many obstacles in his path, many who covet the power and wealth of Winchester. You will have to be vigilant, child. As King John grows older, those who have been biding their time for all these years will emerge, deeming it the perfect time to strike.”

“The king is strong, in perfect health,” Castiel says. “There’s no reason he should cease to be so, not even a decade from now.”

“Beware,” the dragon says, spreading its wings, “and stay close to Dean of Winchester.”

With that, the dragon takes off, bursts of air from its wing beats buffeting Castiel and blowing out his torch. By the time Castiel has relit the torch, the dragon is nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit:** I hesitated over whether I wanted Kilgharrah (if you're not a Merlin fan, Kilgharrah is the name of the dragon) to be in this fic, and even after writing him in, I wasn't sure whether I wanted him to be replaced with a SPN character. I've elected to keep Kilgharrah as he is, but I'm sure he'll end up a bit out-of-character. I don't think I've ever been particularly adept at the "wise man" type character. Just thought I'd mention it.


	4. Chapter 4

Three weeks after the tournament, King John falls suddenly, violently ill.

Castiel is present when Dean is told of the king’s illness, of the nausea and vomiting. Dean sprints from the room, and as Castiel hurries to follow, he can’t help but think of the conversation he had with the Great Dragon, can’t help but remember how he’d been the one to say that King John would remain in good health for a decade. It seems as if the universe is playing a trick on him, simply to prove him wrong.

When he and Dean reach the king’s chambers, Bobby, the court physician, is already present.

“He’s had a seizure, sire,” Bobby reports to Dean, and before he’s finished speaking, Sam bursts into the room as well, Kevin and Ruby close behind him. “I haven’t identified his illness—I’ll have to examine him,” Bobby continues.

“Then examine him,” Dean snaps, tense, eyes worried.

“Some privacy would be much appreciated,” the physician says.

“He’s my father,” Dean says. “I can’t just leave his side.”

Castiel reaches out, lays a hand on Dean’s arm without even thinking about it, and Dean starts, turning sharp eyes on him. Castiel remembers himself and draws his hand back quickly, but still he says what he meant to say—“Sire, your presence here will not help the king. Let the physician work.”

“Castiel is right,” Sam says before Dean can speak. “Come, let’s go.”

“I’m entrusting him to you,” Dean says to Bobby, voice hard.

“I will send word as soon as I discover the nature of his ailment,” Bobby says, head lowered.

Dean nods, but his eyes don’t leave his father, and Castiel clenches his hands into fists to make sure he won’t grab Dean’s arm again to pull him from the room. Thankfully, Sam takes care of that, grasping Dean by the elbow and leading him from the room.

On the way inside, they had passed by several knights waiting outside the door, and they are still there when Dean exits the room. Castiel recognizes the four generals—Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabriel. They are King John’s most favored knights, each heading up one of his armies, and it’s strange for all four to be here at the same time, since the armies are stationed in different parts of the kingdom.

Two younger knights stand slightly behind the generals, familiar to Castiel because he has seen Dean training with them often in the past month—Sirs Victor and Calvin.

“How is the king?” Michael asks, stepping forward.

Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, and when it doesn’t look like he’s going to answer, Sam says, “Not well. Bobby is tending to him now.”

“The timing of his illness is most unfortunate,” Raphael says.

“Explain,” Dean says, suddenly focused.

“We should take this to the council chamber,” Michael suggests, looking pointedly up and down the hallway, eyes lingering for a moment on Ruby, and Dean nods, leading the way down the hall.

Castiel hesitates a moment, watching Kevin for cues—he has never been in this situation before, and he does not know whether servants are allowed to enter the council chambers in these circumstances. When Kevin follows Sam along, trailing behind the knights, Castiel falls into step beside him.

Ruby follows too, though, and Castiel is unsure whether she is allowed to. It had seemed as though Michael did not want to discuss the situation in front of her, and it makes sense, as she has no definite allegiance to Winchester; she is merely a guest in the castle, daughter of one of the wealthy barons in the north.

Before they’ve gone far, Sam notices that Ruby is following them, and he sends her back to her guest chambers, promising to join her later. Castiel cannot help but notice the way Kevin’s lips turn upward slightly, satisfaction flickering unmistakably in his eyes. He makes a mental note to ask Kevin about it later.

Inside the council chambers, Kevin pushes one door closed, and Castiel shuts the other.

“Sire, we’ve returned to the capital because there have been movements along the borders, highly suspicious,” Gabriel reports.

“Highly suspicious?” Dean repeats. “What do you mean? And—surely not _all_ around our borders.”

“I’ve seen forces amassing to the south in Puria, but they haven’t passed our borders, so we haven’t had reason to confront them,” Lucifer says.

“I’ve seen the same just past our eastern borders,” Gabriel adds.

“Raphael?” Dean asks.

“No movement in the west, but the other generals thought it’d be prudent for me to join them here, in case reinforcements were required from me.”

Dean shakes his head. “Do you think it’s coordinated, or a coincidence?”

“It’s hard to say,” Michael answers. “It is difficult to believe that two of our neighbors would choose to rise against us at the same time, independently of one another, but equally hard to believe is that Eve and Daniel could be colluding. They hate each other, always have.”

“I thought Daniel was our friend,” Dean says.

“Last we checked, he was,” Gabriel says. “Yet I’ve seen men gathering beyond our border, in his land.”

“Well, have you sent word to him, asked him what was happening?”

“I thought it best not to contact him without permission from the king,” Gabriel says.

“And we all agreed,” Lucifer says.

“How dire is the situation, then?” Dean asks. Looking back and forth between Gabriel and Lucifer, he adds, “You both said they hadn’t tried crossing our borders yet.”

“They haven’t,” Lucifer confirms.

“Would you recommend that we send word to Daniel or Eve?” Dean asks.

“King Daniel is an honorable man,” Michael says. “If we ask him outright whether he intends to war with us, I believe he will answer. Queen Eve, on the other hand…”

“She is deceptive,” Lucifer says. “We cannot trust that she will be honest with us.”

“We’ll send riders to King Daniel, then,” Dean says. “Gabriel, I’d like you to go in person, to prove that we do not take this lightly.”

“What message shall I convey?”

“Ask if he wants to go to war. If so, ask him why—whether we’ve slighted him somehow. The Kingdoms of Winchester and Dianis have been allies for many years. It would be a shame to lose their friendship now,” Dean says.

“Shall I say this message was from you or from the king?”

Dean hesitates, uncertainty crossing his face.

“The words would hold more weight if Daniel believed them to be from King John,” Lucifer says.

“Is Gabriel to lie, then?” Michael says, frowning. Eyes on Dean, he says, “It would be unwise to lie about this. The king has never liked others speaking in his place, after all.”

“But if he truly wants to go to war with us, wouldn’t it be a bad idea to reveal that our king is indisposed?” Gabriel says. “If I tell him that the message comes from Prince Dean, he will surely ask why the message did not come from the king himself.”

“Then let’s just hope he does not ask that question,” Dean says. “And if he does, just say that the message comes from Winchester. My father and I stand united.”

“Yes, sire,” Gabriel says.

“And what of Puria? How should we handle Eve?” Lucifer asks.

Dean takes a few slow steps away from the others, footsteps quiet on the stone floor. When he turns around, he looks determined. “Raphael, I want you to send a garrison of your men south, as support for Lucifer’s army, should Eve decide to move on us.”

“Sire, are you really sure that’s wise? Delmonica is a constant threat on our western border, and we know they mean us ill,” Michael says.

“Eventually, perhaps, but if armies are amassing right now, both to the south and to the east, we must prepare ourselves,” Dean says.

“I could send a garrison down instead,” Michael offers.

“No,” Dean says. “You already lost almost a full garrison invading Delmonica. We cannot leave the City undefended.”

“It would not be undefended,” Michael argues.

“Should any of our neighbors make it past the border armies, we’ll need the City to be well defended,” Raphael says. “I can spare the men. There has been no motion across our western border for some time—I think they may still be recovering from the damage Michael’s garrison inflicted on their army and lands. Well-deserved damage, given what they did to you, sire.”

Dean flinches, almost imperceptibly, and Castiel wonders how many people in the room noticed it.

“We have no proof that it was they who took me,” he says.

“You clearly came from the west, sire,” Raphael says.

“Delmonica is not the only kingdom that lies to the west. If Michael’s garrison searched everywhere they could and did not find me, it is possible that I escaped from elsewhere.”

“Unless magic was involved,” Lucifer says. “Delmonica is very friendly to sorcerers.”

“It was once suggested that magic might have been used to hide me,” Dean allows. Then he shakes his head. “This conversation is over. Gabriel, choose your best men and ride to Dianis to meet with King Daniel. Lucifer, return to the southern border. And Raphael, send support to Lucifer as soon as you’ve returned to your station. Michael, Victor, Calvin—dismissed.”

“Yes, sire,” the knights chorus, and Castiel quickly moves to help Kevin open the doors for them, letting them out of the council chamber.

When they’ve all gone, Castiel turns and sees that Dean has sunk into a chair at the long table in the center of the chamber, entire body lax. His forehead rests in his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest. This conversation must have forced Dean to feel the weight of his father’s impending absence, too soon for his young shoulders to carry.

It is inevitable that King John will one day die, and on that day, Dean will assume the throne. But Dean is still young, and Castiel doubts he is ready for it.

“That was very kingly of you,” Sam comments gently, dropping into the seat across from Dean.

Castiel can’t help but think that those words will only hurt Dean, not help him. Sure enough, Dean stiffens and sits up straighter, as though he’d forgotten that there were still others in his presence, not yet dismissed.

“Don’t worry, Dean. Father will be all right,” Sam says.

Castiel hasn’t been able to make up his mind about the king’s ward, in the month that he’s been here. He and Dean share a strong bond—that much is undeniable. Sam lovingly calls John his father, and John treats him as a son, but Castiel feels like something doesn’t add up between them.

“I hope so,” Dean says.

“Well—if the worst should happen, we know that he taught you well,” Sam says, and this really only increases Castiel’s misgivings—the fact that Sam can talk about his adoptive father’s death so calmly.

“It won’t,” Dean says, resolute.

Sam nods. “Bobby is the best. I’m sure he’ll do everything he can for Father.” After a pause, he says, “Kevin, Castiel, could you bring us some food? I hadn’t even had a chance to start on my breakfast when I heard about Father, and I’m sure Dean hasn’t eaten, either.”

“I’m not hungry,” Dean says.

“You must keep up your strength. If you fall ill, I don’t know what will become of the kingdom.”

“We’d still have you,” Dean says, and it sounds like an argument, but he turns and says, “Castiel, you may fetch me some food, too.”

“Sire,” Castiel replies with a nod, and accompanies Kevin down toward the kitchens.

* * *

“I hate doing laundry,” Kevin complains as he stretches up on his tiptoes to reach one of the pins.

Castiel chuckles and takes pity, edging Kevin out of the way and reaching up to undo the pin and take down the tunic. “You just work on folding,” he says. “I’ll get the clothes down.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Kevin says, taking the tunic from Castiel and setting it down on the folding table. “I should always do laundry with you.”

“As long as you help me fold Dean’s clothing, I have no complaints,” Castiel replies.

“Deal,” Kevin says.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to remove all the clothing from the clothesline, and then he joins Kevin at the table, working their way through the princes’ clothing.

“So how is Dean?” Kevin asks a little while later.

It is a fair question. Three full days have passed since John fell ill, and Bobby has discovered nothing. Dean has not yet received word from Gabriel about his trip to Dianis, but that is not surprising—the ride to the eastern border takes about two days, and from there to the Dianisian capital takes another day and a half. At the fastest, Gabriel should be reaching the capital later today.

“About as well as you’d expect,” Castiel replies. “He worries.”

Kevin nods. “I expected Sam to be more worried, but he uh…” Kevin huffs, and Castiel cannot tell what it’s supposed to mean—is he angry, sad, disappointed?

“He what?” Castiel prods.

“It’s nothing.”

“Please. I haven’t known you long, but I can tell when you have something you want to say. Say it.”

“It’s not about Sam. Well—it’s partly about Sam. I just—” Kevin stops, shakes his head, sets aside the breeches he just folded, and reaches for another piece of clothing from the stack. “It’s Ruby,” he finally admits, through gritted teeth.

“You don’t like her,” Castiel guesses.

“I don’t. Not one bit,” Kevin replies.

“She’s very beautiful,” Castiel comments, neutrally, to see how Kevin will react.

“That only makes me like her less,” Kevin says. “She may be beautiful, but she’s rude, and arrogant.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Kevin looks at Castiel curiously. “Aren’t who all?”

“The royals,” Castiel replies, nonchalant.

Kevin snickers and elbows Castiel as he says, “Best not let Dean hear you saying that.”

“No need to worry,” Castiel says readily. “I’ve made it quite clear how I feel about him.”

“But at least Sam and Dean are princes, second only to the king,” Kevin says, returning to the topic at hand. “Ruby—Ruby is _nobody_. The daughter of a wealthy man in the north—no higher birth than you and I. What gives her the right to boss us around? Her father’s wealth, and that’s all. Yet Sam hangs on to her every word as though she were the wisest woman in the realm.”

“Keep carrying on like this, and everyone will think you’re jealous of her,” Castiel says lightly.

“Jealous?” Kevin says. “Why on earth would I be jealous of _her?_ ”

Castiel glances up at the boy sitting across from him and sees that the tips of his ears are red. “No reason at all,” Castiel replies, smiling, and when Kevin looks up and meets his eyes, his cheeks take on a pink tint, too.

“I’m only looking out for my master’s wellbeing,” Kevin says, defensive.

“Of course you are,” Castiel says, finishing up the tunic he’s folding and setting it down in Dean’s stack. He takes stock of the shirts and pants lying folded there and says, “I think I’m done.”

“You won’t keep me company? I’m almost done.”

“I have a bed to make and clean clothes to put away, and who knows what tasks Dean will have thought up for me while I was here?” Castiel gets up to leave, but Kevin’s hand shoots across the table, wraps around Castiel’s wrist.

“You—won’t say anything to Sam or Ruby, will you?”

Castiel smiles. “‘Course not,” he answers. “We’re friends.”

“We are,” Kevin agrees, smiling back. He releases Castiel’s wrist and says, “Go on; go serve your master.”

Castiel nods and gathers up Dean’s clothing, heading back into the castle. As he climbs the stairs toward Dean’s chambers, his mind lingers on Sam and Ruby. If Sam is infatuated with the girl, then that would explain why his heart is not as heavy as Dean’s. Castiel has never held amorous feelings for anyone before, but he has seen how love can affect the way a man conducts himself.

His concerns about Sam allayed, Castiel moves down the corridor to Dean’s chambers on lighter feet.

* * *

Dean props his elbows on the table and rubs his temples.

“Perhaps a hunting trip,” Sam says. “Not far,” he adds quickly. “We could just ride through the woods behind the castle. It would be less than a day—we could be back before supper.”

“No,” Dean says. “I couldn’t possibly leave to amuse myself while Father is still unwell.”

“It was only a suggestion.”

“Yes, well—it is not a suggestion that I can take,” Dean says. “I… need to go out on patrol. And I should check on Father, too.”

“Bobby hasn’t sent word,” Sam says. “Surely that means nothing has changed.”

“I should still see him,” Dean says, even though that’s the last thing he wants. He hates seeing Father like that, ashen-faced, unmoving. He looks so _old_.

“Yes, you’re right,” Sam says. “If you send Victor on patrol, you can stay a while with Father.”

God, Dean doesn’t want that.

The door swings open then, and Castiel walks in with a pile of laundry. He bows his head at Sam and Dean as he moves toward the wardrobe.

“Perfect timing, Castiel,” Dean says. “I’ve a job for you.”

“I have laundry to sort,” Castiel says.

“Just put it down. I need you to check on Father. You’re to stay with him until I return from patrol.”

Castiel nods and sets the laundry down on Dean’s unmade bed, which reminds him—

“Why isn’t my bed made, by the way?”

“You flopped back onto it after dressing this morning, sire,” Castiel says. “I thought I’d see to your laundry first.” After a pause, he asks, “Did you want me to do that now?”

“No, leave it,” Dean decides. “Go to the king.”

“Sire,” Castiel says, and leaves the room.

“He seems like a good servant,” Sam comments after the door closes.

“He’s not incompetent,” Dean says.

“Is he better or worse than Garth?”

“Can’t say.”

“It’s already been a month,” Sam says, a wrinkle appearing in his brow.

“His loyalty has never been tested,” Dean says as he gets to his feet.

“True.”

Dean tugs his gloves on and moves toward the door. “Come on patrol with me?”

“I’d rather not,” Sam says. “See you when you get back.”

Dean nods. “I won’t be long.”

* * *

When Castiel turns down the corridor to King John’s chambers, he nearly crashes headlong into Ruby, who is walking swiftly in the opposite direction.

“My apologies,” Castiel says, bowing his head.

“Oh no, it’s quite all right,” Ruby says. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Prince Sam was just in Prince Dean’s chambers,” Castiel supplies. “You might be able to catch him there, if you hurry.”

“Thank you,” Ruby replies, and brushes past him.

It is only as her footsteps fade that Castiel begins to wonder what she was doing in this part of the castle anyway. Even if she were looking for Sam, surely she would’ve thought to check Dean’s chambers _before_ the king’s.

He enters the king’s chambers and finds them empty—Bobby must be occupied elsewhere, for now. Trying to find a cure, no doubt.

Castiel hesitates a moment before dragging a chair over to the king’s bedside. If he is to wait here until Dean arrives, he may as well wait comfortably.

But before sitting down, he thinks he sees the king’s eyes moving, eyeballs rolling underneath his eyelids, and Castiel frowns, edges closer. The king remains unmoving, comatose, but he must still be able to dream. Idly, Castiel wonders what a king might dream about. He reaches out absentmindedly, curious, but before he can make contact, something makes him draw his hand back.

Something isn’t right here.

Castiel glances back at the door, making sure that he closed it when he came in. When he listens carefully, he cannot hear anyone approaching. So he turns his attention back to the king and reaches out again, this time with purpose. He feels the instinct to pull his hand back, the instinct to stay away from something so _wrong_.

His hand makes contact with John’s temple, and he feels sickness in him, sees images flashing through his head—memories or hallucinations Castiel cannot tell, but there is a great deal of white, of bright red blood, of silver blades glinting in firelight.

He pulls away, shuddering.

It’s poison. He doesn’t know what type it is, doesn’t even know how he knows, but it’s poison.

Castiel thinks back to what the dragon had said to him, about how enemies of Winchester would start to come, deeming this the “perfect time to strike.”

But Dean isn’t ready. Castiel has seen it in the days since John fell ill, has seen the slump of Dean’s shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. He hears Dean tossing and turning at night, sees how reluctant Dean is to wake in the morning, tired after falling asleep too late.

So Castiel exhales deeply and reaches out a third time, this time with the intent of healing. He may not know what poison runs through the king’s blood, but at the very least, he can soothe the king’s sleep and reduce his suffering.

He rests one palm over the king’s forehead, bracing himself against the onslaught of sensation, and places the other palm on his chest, feeling the erratic thumping of his heart.

Under his breath, he murmurs a few quick words of healing and watches as the tightness around the king’s eyes smooths out, the muscles in his clenched jaw relaxing. Beneath Castiel’s palms, the king’s mind quiets, and Castiel draws a relieved breath.

“Boy,” a voice says, and Castiel twists around, sees the court physician standing just inside the doorway—“what on earth did you just do?”

“I—I didn’t do anything,” Castiel says.

“I heard you. I _saw_ you,” Bobby says, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Please—I can explain.”

Bobby pushes the door closed behind him and locks it, and Castiel swallows hard, fear rooting him to the spot. He could make a run for the window, soften his fall with magic, and escape past the walls of Winchester without being captured, he’s sure, but he doesn’t want to leave here.

Not yet, at least, and certainly not like that.

“You have _magic_ ,” Bobby accuses.

“No. No, I—”

“ _I saw you_ ,” Bobby repeats, stepping closer. “Where were you trained?”

“I didn’t—”

“Who taught you?”

“I was never trained,” Castiel says. “It’s innate. I was born with it.”

Bobby looks at him in plain disbelief. “Who taught you?” he reiterates. “I want a name.”

“ _No one_ ,” Castiel insists. “I’ve never even _spoken_ to another person with magic—I’ve only seen them get executed for it.”

The implied worry in his words doesn’t escape Bobby, if the way he inclines his head is any indication. A moment later, the old man says, “You’d better be telling me the truth, boy. If I find out there’s another sorcerer somewhere in the City of Winchester—”

“Not to my knowledge, there isn’t,” Castiel says. “I swear it.”

Bobby walks over to the bedside, and Castiel steps away, lets the court physician look. “Well,” Bobby says, “whatever you did, it has helped. There is more color in his cheeks, and he breathes deeper.” Castiel says nothing, and Bobby turns toward him. “But you already knew that would happen, didn’t you? Were you the one to do this to him? Have you enchanted the king?”

“No,” Castiel says. “But I—it’s poison. I don’t know what poison, but it’s poison.”

“I thought it was a disease of the brain,” Bobby says, frowning. “The nausea and headaches, right before the seizure and the coma—the signs seemed clear.”

“It’s poison,” Castiel repeats. “I know it is.”

Bobby eyes Castiel carefully before saying, “Go to my chambers, then, and research. I have many books of medicine there. If this is truly a poison, you are sure to find the king’s symptoms there.”

“I don’t know anything about medicines,” Castiel confesses. “It’d be more efficient if you went.”

“I cannot trust you to be alone with the king, not now that your secret is known to me,” Bobby says. “If you find the poison and revive the king, then, and only then, will I begin to trust you.”

“What if I find the poison too late, and the king dies?” Castiel asks.

“Then I’ll have no choice but to report what I saw to the prince and leave your fate in his hands.”

Castiel nods. “I’d better hurry, then,” he says, and leaves the room.

* * *

Castiel is only two steps away from the court physician’s quarters when someone calls his name—

“Castiel!”

He almost ignores the voice and goes in anyway, but there’s no one else in this hallway, no other sounds, and he cannot pretend that he was too distracted to hear. Reluctant, he turns and sees Sam coming toward him, Kevin following close behind. Ruby must have missed him at Dean’s chambers.

“Sire,” Castiel says, bowing his head.

“What’re you doing here? I thought my brother told you to stay with the king until he returned from his patrol, and I know he can’t have come back this quickly.”

“Bobby is there now,” Castiel replies. “He sent me to his quarters to do some research in his stead.”

“What could you possibly be researching?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a servant. What do you know of diseases?”

“Nothing,” Castiel answers. “But I can read, and that’s all I need to look up symptoms.”

“I suppose,” Sam concedes. After a brief pause, he says, “We’ll help you, then.”

Castiel blinks, surprised, and says, “I would appreciate that very much, sire.” He pushes open the door to Bobby’s chambers and steps inside, holding it open for Sam and then Kevin.

“Do you know where we ought to be looking?” Kevin asks.

But Castiel is distracted, taking in the disorderly state of the room—several worktables are placed around the room, at odd angles with each other. Books are stacked haphazardly in piles, and many more are sitting open on the worktables, pages old and yellowed. Two of the stone walls are completely obscured by floor-to-ceiling shelves, packed full with books and bottles—potions, no doubt.

“Castiel?” Kevin prods.

“Yes—sorry,” Castiel says. “Bobby suspects that it’s not just a disease—that it might be a poison.”

“Poison?” Sam repeats, a hint of alarm in his voice. “Who would do such a thing?”

“An enemy of Winchester, obviously,” Kevin says, rolling his eyes and moving toward one of the shelves.

“I know _that_ ,” Sam says. “Just—I can’t see who would’ve had the opportunity to poison him. All of his food is tasted before he eats it, and any medicines he takes are made by Bobby’s hand. And he hasn’t had to take medicine in months, anyway.”

“If someone succeeded in poisoning the king despite all this, I doubt they would’ve left us reason to suspect them,” Castiel says as Kevin pulls a few thick volumes from the shelf.

“These are all on poisons,” Kevin says, setting them down on one of the tables, on top of a closed book. “Though I’ll wager Bobby’s got lots more in those stacks. He keeps saying he’ll organize, but he never does have the time.”

Castiel steps closer and helps Kevin clear off some space on the table so that they’ll have room to work. Meanwhile, Sam says, “So, we’re looking for something that causes seizures, headaches, nausea…”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “But above all, it must be able to render the victim comatose.”

“Right,” Sam says, selecting a book and sitting down at the table.

Kevin joins him on the bench, and Castiel settles in across from them.

* * *

In the end, it is Kevin who finds John’s exact symptoms, and the three of them hurry to take the thick volume up the stairs to the king’s chambers.

“Henbane,” Sam says when they burst into the room.

Bobby approaches them with guarded eyes, lingering on Castiel for a moment longer than Sam or Kevin, but he accepts the book that Kevin thrusts into his hands and looks down when Kevin points at the page.

“I was just telling Kevin and Castiel that the king couldn’t have been poisoned, but this poison is administered through the ear, so it’s—different,” Sam continues.

“Yes,” Bobby agrees, eyes scanning the page quickly. “The perpetrator must have had access to the castle at all hours, or they must’ve snuck into the castle after hours, in order to catch the king unconscious.”

“Well, that doesn’t really eliminate anyone,” Sam says with a huff. “Kevin and I have snuck in and out plenty of times without being caught, and we’re not even experts at it.”

Bobby looks up at them, brow furrowed. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, shall I?”

“Can you prepare the cure?” Castiel asks, because he remembers only too well Bobby’s threat to expose him if the king dies.

There’s a brief pause, and then Bobby says, “I have all the necessary ingredients for a remedy in my stores. At least one of you ought to stay here and keep watch over the king.” He heads for the door, and then he says, “I’ll need an assistant. Castiel, come with me.”

Castiel spares a glance at Sam, checking for an objection and finding none, before following Bobby from the room.

“Kevin, stay here,” he hears Sam saying, and when he glances over his shoulder, he sees the king’s ward exiting the chambers, too. “How long will it take to cure him?” Sam asks.

“I can’t say,” Bobby answers. “Making the antidote properly will take three days, and I do not know whether the king will last that long. But I know of a tincture that will slow the effects of the poison and wake him from his coma. It is easy to prepare. With the tincture, we have a chance of saving him.”

“And that’s why you need assistance,” Sam concludes. “You need someone to work on the tincture while you make the antidote.”

“Yes.”

They walk in silence for a few paces, and then Sam asks, in a lower tone, “Was this magical?”

Bobby actually stops walking, and Castiel nearly crashes into him. The physician turns around, one brow raised, and answers, “No. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Sam says.

“Hmm,” Bobby grunts, dissatisfied, but he turns around and keeps walking.

Sam moves to follow, but Castiel catches his elbow, holds him back until Bobby has turned the corner. “You looked relieved by Bobby’s answer,” Castiel comments, curious about the wariness that rises in Sam’s eyes at his words.

“I have no sympathy for practitioners of magic,” Sam says firmly. “I just—think that my father is already too prejudiced against magic. I’m only relieved that this will not give him an excuse to renew his crusade against sorcery. It scares the townspeople. Causes unrest.”

Bobby’s head pokes out from around the corner then, and he snaps, “Are you two coming or not?”

“Coming,” Sam says, pushing past Castiel to continue down the corridor.

Castiel lingers in place for a moment, processing. Sam is—unfathomable. Castiel cannot decide whether he was being honest.

But Sam’s position on magic can wait. Right now, Castiel must focus on ensuring the king’s recovery, so that Bobby will keep his secret.

* * *

Upon returning from his patrol, Dean goes straight to the king’s chambers and finds Kevin seated at Father’s bedside, elbows propped on the edge of the bed. He shoots to his feet when he sees Dean, a slightly apologetic smile stretching his lips.

“Sire.”

“Where is Castiel?” Dean asks, frowning. Castiel may be impertinent, sometimes, but he has never disobeyed a direct order.

“Oh—he’s gone with Bobby,” Kevin says. “We discovered that the king was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?!” Dean says, alarmed. If Father is not just ill—if he has been _poisoned_ , this might have something to do with the enemies amassing at their borders. Perhaps they’re just waiting for Father to pass before launching an attack on two fronts.

“Yes, sire,” Kevin says. “It was henbane poison. Bobby has taken Sam and Castiel to work on the remedy.”

“So there is a remedy,” Dean says. Kevin nods, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. It is difficult, but he forces himself to step closer to the bed, to look down into his father’s pale face. “Leave me,” he says to Kevin, and the boy bows before heading for the door.

Left alone, Dean sinks into the vacant chair at his father’s bedside and waits, wishes Father could beat the poison on strength of will alone.

He isn’t sure how long he sits there, lost in his thoughts, but he resurfaces to a hand on his shoulder, a low, familiar voice saying, “Dean? Are you all right?”

“That’s _sire_ to you, Castiel,” Dean says instinctively as he regains his bearings. Night has fallen, and the candles in the chamber have been lit.

“Of course. I’m going to need you to move, _sire_ ,” Castiel says.

Dean glances up at him, ready to reprimand him for his cheek, but Castiel’s eyes are grim and determined despite the upward twist of his lips—he plays at normalcy, but he is clearly worried. Dean can only think that he shows remarkable loyalty for someone who didn’t even want to work here in the first place.

Then Castiel lifts his other hand, shows Dean a vial. “The king must drink this,” he says. Before Dean can ask, he explains, “It is a tincture that’ll slow down the poison and give Bobby enough time to prepare the antidote.”

“All right,” Dean says, getting out of his chair and leaning over Father, lifting his head and torso a little so that the liquid will go down easier. Castiel leans over too, vial in one hand, the other reaching out to gently ease Father’s mouth open.

Castiel manages to get almost all of the liquid into Father’s mouth, spilling only a dribble onto his chin, and he quickly produces a handkerchief to dab it off. Dean lowers Father back to the pillows and watches eagerly, waits for a change.

“It might take some time, Dean. Sire.”

Dean chuckles. “Better,” he allows. “I might make you into a proper manservant yet.”

Castiel actually scoffs, and Dean looks at him in surprise. “Unlikely,” Castiel says, and Dean nods sagely.

“Yes, you’re right. It _is_ unlikely, with that attitude,” he says. Someone knocks on the door then, and raising his voice, Dean says, “Who’s there?”

“Sirs Michael and Victor, sire,” a guard responds.

“Let them in,” Dean says to Castiel, and his manservant nods, walks past him. Dean spends another moment looking down at Father before turning to face the door.

Michael and Victor enter quickly, concern written all over their faces.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“Message by carrier pigeon, from the Dianisian capital,” Michael says, producing a slip of paper.

Dean accepts it from him, smooths it out, and reads silently:

_Daniel claims no knowledge of the forces gathering at his border and vows no ill will toward Winchester. A Dianisian patrol rides toward the border. –G_

“It is his handwriting,” Dean says.

“It is,” Michael agrees.

“Do you believe it?” Dean asks.

Michael nods. “I’ve instructed two riders to leave at first light for Gabriel’s garrison, to tell them to expect a Dianisian patrol, coming in peace. Do you have any additional instructions for them?”

“No. You’ve done well,” Dean says.

“Sire…” Michael says hesitantly, and Dean gestures for him to go on. “I still think it unwise that we’ve thinned out our forces in the west. The Delmonican threat—”

Dean holds up a hand to silence him. “If what Daniel says is true, then it’s possible that Eve has sent some of her men into Dianis without his knowledge, hoping for us to think that they’ve made an alliance against us. That is a more immediate threat.”

“As Raphael said when we last spoke on this, Delmonica is recovering from our last incursion into their land,” Victor says. “I agree with Prince Dean—Puria is the more immediate threat.”

“What if what holds true for Daniel holds true for Eve as well? What if the forces in Puria have gathered there without her knowledge, too?” Michael posits.

Dean shakes his head. “I doubt it. The terrain in Puria is difficult to navigate, and Eve’s patrols are thick on the ground and extremely thorough. It is near impossible to pass through that land without encountering one.”

This much Dean knows very well—he himself led men through Purian territory only two years ago, in pursuit of a group of druids whom Father thought had caused a disease to spread through the crops surrounding the City. They’d come upon a Purian patrol within their first day in that land, and they’d been taken down and brought before Eve herself. Fortunately, when Dean had explained their reason for coming, Eve had taken pity and released them.

But the druids had gotten away, and though Father hasn’t said anything since, he still holds that against Dean. Dean hasn’t ventured into Puria since, but he knows that if he ever returns, he’ll have to be extremely vigilant. And he’ll take fewer men.

“I only want to make sure you’ve considered every possibility,” Michael says, lowering his head in deference.

“Thank you, Michael,” Dean says. “I appreciate your insight, but I will not change my mind. Dismissed.”

“Sire,” Michael says, and backs up a step before turning to leave.

“Victor, stay,” Dean says before the other knight can take his leave. As the door closes behind Michael, Dean says, “You are to set up guards at the king’s chambers. No one in or out without my permission. Bobby is an obvious exception. Sam and Kevin too, of course.”

“Yes, sire,” Victor says. He pauses, then asks, “And— _your_ manservant, sire?”

Dean glances at Castiel, but the man isn’t even paying attention. Dean would scold him for being inattentive, but his eyes are on Father, tight with worry, and Dean can’t fault him for that. “Yes. Castiel, too,” Dean says.

“Sire?” Castiel says, jerking to attention, probably because he heard his name.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Dean says. “If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve known that.”

Castiel only nods, and Dean is almost disappointed at the lack of a retort. It occurs to him then that Victor is still in the room, though, and—now that Dean is thinking about it, Castiel has never been anything but deferent in the company of others. It seems his defiance is for Dean’s eyes only. The thought is somehow pleasing to Dean, though he doesn’t understand how.

“Anything else, sire?” Victor asks.

“No,” Dean says. “See to it immediately.”

“Yes, sire.”

After Victor has gone, Dean turns to Castiel, the vexing mystery of a man. But Castiel’s gaze has returned to Father—impatient, worried, hopeful.

“What are you thinking?” Dean asks, curious.

“Nothing,” Castiel says.

His answer seems too quick, though, reflexive, and Dean doesn’t believe that for a second. “You can’t lie to me. I’m your master,” Dean says.

“I’m not lying,” Castiel says.

“Another lie. Unbelievable. I could put you in the stocks for this,” Dean says. When Castiel says nothing, Dean adds, “Or worse.”

“I’m just worried,” Castiel says. “I wasn’t thinking anything specifically.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

Castiel finally looks at Dean, and—

His eyes.

_The_ eyes.

The vision lasts only an instant, yet Dean feels shaken to the core, like he’s in one of his dreams. He blinks, and Castiel’s eyes are the same as always, cobalt blue, pupils a little wider than usual because the room is so dim.

“Sire?”

Castiel looks concerned. Dean may have missed something he said.

“Where is Sam?” Dean asks, biting back the impulse to ask Castiel to come closer, or to move closer himself. He has already tried twice to look straight into Castiel’s eyes, has already tried twice to find the set of eyes that haunts his nights. He will not fall prey to that temptation again.

“Sam?” Castiel asks, head tilting a little with confusion.

“Kevin mentioned that Bobby had taken you and Sam with him,” Dean recalls. “Where is Sam?”

“Oh. Ruby asked him to join her for supper,” Castiel says.

“Supper?” Dean repeats, surprised, but he realizes belatedly that night has obviously fallen. He hadn’t felt the passage of time.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Are you hungry? I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

“All right. I’ll eat here,” Dean says, and he feels a weight lift from his chest when Castiel has gone from the chamber.

Maybe it _wasn’t_ such a good idea to bring him into the castle. Yet the thought of dismissing him is ludicrous, and Dean can’t stand to dwell on it. For the first time, Dean considers the possibility that Castiel is magical, or that perhaps Castiel has been enchanted. There _must_ be a reason why he draws Dean’s attention so inexorably, and without any apparent effort.

Perhaps he’ll mention it to Bobby sometime. Bobby knows things about magic. Surely he could test to see whether there’s some form of enchantment tying Dean and Castiel.

* * *

Late at night, Castiel lies awake, unable to sleep. He stares up at the stone ceiling above his head and slows his breathing, tries to count until he falls unconscious.

When that fails, he sighs and sits up, looks down at his hands. He turns them palm side up and, with a whisper, produces two small balls of flame, one above the center of each palm. It feels good to use his magic, like a muscle that hasn’t been stretched in too long, and he smiles, makes the flames grow higher.

There’s a shuffling sound then, and some squeaking, and Castiel wonders whether Dean is as restless as he is. When the squeaking sound doesn’t let up, Castiel extinguishes the flames on his palms and gets to his feet, pulling a coat on over his nightshirt as he moves toward the door.

When he enters Dean’s chambers, he sees Dean shaking violently on the bed, rolling back and forth, and Castiel hurries to his bedside, insides seizing up with fear.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “Dean!”

Dean huddles in on himself at the sound of Castiel’s voice, as though he’s frightened, and Castiel reaches out, grabs his shoulder to hold him still, and presses a hand to his forehead. Dean trembles in his hold, and Castiel shudders with him. He whispers a few quick words to cut off the dream raging in Dean’s mind, relishing the relief that washes through him as his master’s breathing evens out.

* * *

Dean wakes with a gasp, sitting up abruptly.

He can’t remember the nightmare, can only feel the echoes of terror still gripping him. But counter to the fear, warmth lingers around him, cocoons him, and even though a quick look around his room reveals that he is alone in his chamber, he has a distinct feeling that someone is watching over him.

But he is too exhausted, too shaken, to try to reason with his senses and his instincts. For a moment, nothing makes sense. Nothing is real.

Dean lies down again, closes his eyes, and lets the warmth lull him back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just letting you know: I have no recollection of what exactly the effects of the henbane poison were on the show, so I sorta just made something up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has been bumped up to Explicit.

Father wakes three hours after sunrise the day after receiving Castiel’s tincture, and Dean spends the rest of the morning in his chambers, alongside Michael and Victor and Calvin, reporting to him about the situation at the borders. They’ve not heard anything from Gabriel’s garrison, which makes sense, because the Dianisian patrol can’t have gotten there that quickly.

With Father awake, the mood in the castle lightens up considerably, and Dean finds himself eager to go on that hunting trip Sam had suggested. But the afternoon finds Dean in his father’s chambers again, this time to report on this year’s harvest.

The day after, Father seems paler, but Bobby emerges from his quarters with a triumphant look on his face, and the day after that, Father is back on his feet again.

“You’ve done well, Dean,” he says, clapping Dean on the shoulder as they head toward the council chamber. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m just glad that you recovered, Father,” Dean says. “A few days longer, and Winchester might have fallen.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Father says with a laugh.

The knights are waiting for them inside, Michael and Gabriel standing at the forefront.

“I didn’t know you’d arrived already,” Dean says to Gabriel.

“Only arrived a few minutes ago, sire,” Gabriel answers. “I rode to the border with the Dianisian patrol, and I thought it’d be best to relay our findings in person.”

Father sinks into his seat at the head of the table and gestures for everyone else to join him. Dean sits down at his left. “Proceed,” Father says as the others take their seats.

“I had to sneak around the forces gathered at the border when I was heading into Dianis, but upon my return, there was no trace of them,” Gabriel says as he lowers himself into a chair. “I worried that they might have invaded, but I saw no signs of raiders or soldiers crossing into our land, and the villages I passed were undisturbed, all the way to the City.”

“And obviously, there has been no attack on the City,” Michael adds.

“I can only conclude that the threat has moved on, for reasons unknown,” Gabriel says.

“Any movement in the south?” Father asks, pensive.

“Lucifer sent word this morning. No sign of armed men in Puria,” Michael answers.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Dean says. “Why gather at our border if they were just going to disappear without making a move?”

It’s silent for a long moment, and then Father says, “I’ve been told it was a poison that kept me bedridden for the past several days. The timing of these forces, rising up and dissipating at our borders, is too perfect to be coincidence.”

Dean doesn’t like the way that sounds. “What do you mean, Father?”

“The men at the borders knew that I was poisoned. They were likely the ones that poisoned me,” Father says. “It was strategic. An attack at the heart of our kingdom, to weaken us before they even embarked on their invasion. But they learnt that a cure had been found, so they slunk away rather than suffer defeat.”

“That would mean the enemy is in the City, and very close to you, sire,” Michael says. “Without finding their identity, they could strike again without a moment’s notice.”

Father nods, eyes distant. Then he says, “I will think on it, and we will reconvene tomorrow. Dean, stay behind. The rest of you are dismissed.”

“Sire,” the knights chorus, and they exit the room.

“Do you already have a suspect in mind, Father?” Dean asks.

Father doesn’t answer immediately, eyes flicking behind Dean pointedly, and Dean turns to see—

“Castiel.” Dean had forgotten he was in the room. “Polish my armor. I’m going to the training field in a few hours, and I can’t be seen filthy.”

“It’s already been polished,” Castiel says, apparently oblivious.

Dean narrows his eyes, because Castiel should know better than to talk back to him, _especially_ in front of Father. “Then polish it _again_ ,” Dean says, jerking his head toward the door, and Castiel blinks, nods.

“Of course, sire,” he says, with a lot more deference this time, and then he ducks out of the room. At least he’s not a _complete_ idiot.

“Does he often speak back to you that way?” Father asks when the door has slammed shut.

“Not often. It’s unimportant—he’s just a servant,” Dean says, hoping to end the discussion there. “Do you have suspicions?” he asks again.

“I trust the knights,” Father says. “Each one would not have been knighted had he not proven his mettle, and his loyalty to the crown. It can’t be any of them.”

“I agree,” Dean says.

“Bobby and I spoke on the matter last night. We agree that it is most likely a servant in the castle.”

“ _That’s_ why you wanted Castiel out of the room?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

“He’s hardly been here a month,” Father says. “I’d say that makes him a good suspect.”

“That makes no sense,” Dean says. “He didn’t even _want_ to work in the royal household.”

This makes Father’s eyebrows shoot up, and—of course. Dean hadn’t meant to let Father know that piece of information about his new manservant; he’d only said that Garth really wanted to enlist, and that Castiel was the replacement Garth had recommended.

“All I mean is that he’d never even considered it before Garth recommended him,” Dean says before Father can ask.

“And how do you know that?”

Dean holds back the impulse to sigh, because Father isn’t going to like his answer. “He said so,” Dean lies, because the truth—that Dean sought Castiel out—would be even worse. It would make Father think that Castiel had leverage over Dean, and he would expel Castiel from the royal household.

“He’s a servant, Dean,” Father says, disapproving. “You hardly know him. You can’t simply take him at his word.”

“He helped Bobby create the tincture that brought you back to consciousness,” Dean says. “Ask Bobby. He’ll confirm it. Why would Castiel help to cure you if he was the one to poison you?”

“To avoid getting caught at it,” Father snaps irritably.

Dean holds his tongue, aware that speaking now will only anger Father further.

At length, Father says, “Your new manservant is not the only suspect I am considering. This is not personal. If you truly believe him to be loyal, prove it to me.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know,” Father admits. “When an opportunity presents itself, take advantage of it.”

Dean exhales sharply. “I will,” he says, getting to his feet. “Was there anything else?”

“I need you to be especially vigilant,” Father says.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything like this happen to you again,” Dean says fervently.

“You misunderstand me,” Father says, his expression uncharacteristically worried. “I need you to be especially vigilant with your own safety. Yes, I am the most likely target that an enemy of Winchester would choose to strike. But you are the sole rightful heir to the throne, Dean, and that makes you a very close second. Be careful.”

Dean processes the words, the worry and fear on his father’s face, and nods. “Of course, Father.”

* * *

On Dean’s way to Bobby’s quarters, he comes across Sam and Ruby wandering slowly down a corridor, heads bowed together in discussion. Curious, Dean starts toward them, and Sam’s head shoots up at the sound of his footsteps. Ruby looks up too, still speaking in a low voice, but she goes quiet as soon as her eyes land on Dean.

Putting on a broad smile despite his suspicion, Dean says, “Morning! What were you two whispering about?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, but his too-wide eyes have always been a giveaway for faking innocence.

“Sammy, if you’ve got secrets…”

Clearing her throat, Ruby says, “I was just telling him how I wanted to bed him later, my lord.”

Dean very nearly chokes at that response, and Sam _actually_ chokes, flushing red.

“ _Ruby_ ,” he hisses, apparently mortified, and Dean laughs.

“Those secrets you can keep to yourselves, lovebirds,” he says, amused. Sam glares at him, but the effect is ruined by his pink cheeks.

Dean leaves them to it and goes back on his way, mood far lighter than before. But as he gets closer to Bobby’s chambers, he grows somber again, the reason for his visit resurfacing in his thoughts.

“I was about to check up on your father,” Bobby says when Dean enters.

“He’s fine,” Dean says.

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “No lingering symptoms?”

“None,” Dean confirms, expecting that to reassure Bobby, but the old man only looks more concerned, and Dean says, slowly, “ _Should_ there be lingering symptoms?”

“Ah—not always,” Bobby says. “Henbane is not a common poison, so there is still much that is unknown about it. I was expecting His Highness to be experiencing some residual discomfort, but he has always been in excellent health. That may be the reason for his quick recovery.”

“All right,” Dean says, a little hesitantly.

Bobby sets his medicine bag down and says, “So if you are not here for the king, why are you here? Is this about your dreams? You haven’t mentioned them for over a month.”

“Oh,” Dean says, caught off guard. “Uh, I—”

“I take it that wasn’t your reason for coming, either.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, tell me anyway,” Bobby says, sitting down at one of his tables—marginally cleaner than the others—and gesturing for Dean to sit down across from him.

“The dreams got more sporadic for a while, and they got worse, too,” Dean admits, accepting the invitation. “I haven’t had a single dream for the past three nights, though.”

“They stopped abruptly, then?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “I can tell you if they start again.”

“You said they got worse. In what way?”

“I’m—not comfortable discussing that,” Dean says.

He has to hold back a shudder at the mere thought of his last few dreams. He has seen himself as both the tortured and the torturer, under the blade and wielding the blade, and he can’t even tell which scares him more about his dream self—the pain he feels when he’s being tortured or the pleasure he gets from inflicting torture.

“You realize that it’ll be difficult for me to help you without knowing everything,” Bobby says.

“Of course,” Dean says. “That’s why I didn’t bring this to you.”

“All right,” Bobby concedes. “Why _are_ you here?”

“I have a… it might sound a bit strange, but I want you to answer a question,” Dean says. Bobby nods, something wary in his expression, and Dean considers _not_ asking, but he has no one else to go to. “Do you know any sort of enchantment that could make a man fixate on someone?”

Bobby looks openly worried at the question, and he says, “I am not familiar with enchantments, Dean.”

“I’m not asking if you could perform one—only if you’re aware of an enchantment like that.”

“If I may, why are you asking this?”

“Just answer my question. Truthfully. I know you know things about magic, Bobby. You’re always the first person Father turns to when he suspects sorcery is involved.”

“Very well. Suppose such an enchantment does exist. If you suspect someone of being enchanted, you ought to bring him to me.”

“There are no outside symptoms. I doubt bringing him to you would change anything,” Dean says. “But it’s possible, then. That he’s been enchanted.”

“I cannot say anything for certain without knowing the patient,” Bobby says pointedly.

Dean huffs, annoyed, but he supposes he should have expected this. The old man has always been stubborn. He deliberates, Castiel’s name on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. It’ll be safer if he keeps this to himself, in case Bobby suspects that Castiel is the source of the enchantment.

“Dean?”

“That was all,” Dean says, getting to his feet.

Bobby stands too, a pinched look on his face. “Dean, if you suspect there’s a sorcerer on the loose somewhere in Winchester, you can’t keep it to yourself.”

“You can’t tell me what I can or cannot do,” Dean snaps reflexively, and Bobby’s eyebrows go up.

“Of course, sire,” he says, sitting back down.

Dean holds back the impulse to apologize and hurries out of the room.

* * *

The first few days after the king’s recovery are tense for Castiel. He sees Bobby several times, but they never speak to one another. Castiel is tempted to confront the old man, but the very fact that Castiel is still alive and unfettered is proof enough that Bobby hasn’t said anything about his magic.

It’s a relief to know that Bobby kept his promise, but—why? Why did he make the promise in the first place? Castiel may not know much about the physician, but in his time at the castle, he has noticed that the John holds Bobby in high regard. It is difficult to imagine Bobby holding a different opinion from the king, especially on something as divisive as magic, but Castiel can think of no other reason for him to hold his tongue.

“Castiel!”

Castiel freezes at the sound of Bobby’s voice. Coincidence?

“Do you have a minute?”

Castiel half-turns to show Bobby the basket of freshly laundered bedclothes in his arms and says, “I’ve got to make the prince’s bed.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Bobby says, gesturing for Castiel to go on down the corridor.

Castiel nods and continues on his way. Bobby falls into step beside him, but he doesn’t actually speak until they’ve entered Dean’s bedchamber.

The door falls shut, and Castiel sets the basket down at the foot of Dean’s bare bed, starting to spread the sheet out over it.

“Have you enchanted Dean?”

Castiel knew as soon as Bobby stopped him in the hall that this would be about magic, but hearing the question still makes him freeze, gut clenched in fear. “No,” he says— _lies_. He _has_ been enchanting Dean, every night, quieting his mind and keeping the night terrors at bay.

“Is that so?” Bobby says skeptically. Castiel chances a glance up at the old man and sees him standing on the other side of Dean’s bed, arms folded across his chest and a stern look on his face.

“It is so,” Castiel says, voice even.

“Dean was just at my chambers, asking about an enchantment that could make a man fixate on someone,” Bobby says. “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea which man he is talking about, and on whom he is fixating, would you?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Bobby says. “I’ve kept your secret from the prince and the king alike. But if you want me to continue to do so, you _will_ be honest with me.”

Castiel stops working and straightens. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why _have_ you kept my secret?” Castiel clarifies. “You seem to be a close advisor to the king. He hates magic. One would think you’d hate it, too, or he’d never listen to your counsel.”

He is watching closely, so he sees the way Bobby flinches, near imperceptibly, at Castiel’s words.

“I have no quarrel with magic,” Bobby says stiffly. “I merely answer questions when the king has them. If you harbor no ill intent, I will feel no obligation to tell him about your powers.”

Castiel doesn’t know whether to believe him. “I’m relieved to hear that,” Castiel says blandly. “But I have not enchanted the prince, and I don’t know who he was talking about.”

Bobby grunts. “All right, then,” he says, and Castiel turns his attention back to his work. He expects the physician to leave him in peace, but instead, he hears, “I did want to ask about how you’ve been sleeping, since you started working here.”

“I’ve been sleeping just fine,” Castiel says slowly, suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Only because I know Dean has been suffering nightmares ever since his return,” Bobby says. “They used to be nightmares of fire, but he says they’ve only gotten worse.”

Castiel keeps his face turned down as he smooths out the silk sheet and then goes to get the fur coverlet out of the basket.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been woken by them in the past nights,” Bobby continues.

Has Dean been telling Bobby that he still has nightmares, even though Castiel has been taking them away? Or—or does he retain some recollection of them even after Castiel removes them?

“Castiel, look at me.”

Castiel steels himself and looks up at the physician, finds him looking back with a piercing gaze.

“Blue eyes,” Bobby says, tone and expression giving nothing away.

Oh. This could be very bad. Dean’s fixation with Castiel’s eyes—has he shared it with Bobby? “Pardon?” Castiel says neutrally.

“You have blue eyes.”

“So I do. What of it?” Castiel says, trying his best not to sound defensive.

“Just over a month ago, Dean told me that his dreams of fire had changed. They’d been endless before, but suddenly they were cut short by a set of blue eyes,” Bobby says.

Castiel puts everything he has into making his face a mask, because this is _bad_.

“He said that it only started after he saw a man with blue eyes. Not three days later, you became Dean’s manservant, at his behest, even though he has refused to take on a new manservant for years.” Bobby pauses for a moment here, and then he says, “I think you and I both know who Dean was talking about when he came into my chambers earlier today.”

“I don’t—” Castiel tries, but Bobby’s glare only intensifies, and Castiel’s weak denials die in the back of his throat.

“If you don’t tell me everything, _now_ , I will expose you to John when I next see him. I don’t even need proof. He already suspects that it was a servant who poisoned him, and as soon as I say that you are a sorcerer, he will have you burnt at the stake, no questions asked.”

Castiel licks his lips. “Bobby, I—”

The door bangs open then, and Castiel jumps nearly a foot in the air. Bobby jerks too, startled, and swivels around to look at the intruder.

“Oh. Bobby,” Dean says, eyebrows raised in mild surprise as he walks into the room. “I hadn’t thought I’d see you again so soon,” he adds, something almost sheepish in his expression.

“Nor I you,” Bobby responds.

“I thought you were going to be training most of the morning, sire,” Castiel says.

“Change of plans,” Dean says. “It’s been near two months since my return, and I’ve been in the City for the entire time. It’s been far too long, so Sam and I are going on a hunting trip. I want my things packed and my horse readied. We ride out in an hour.”

“But I haven’t finished making your bed,” Castiel says, dropping the fur on the bed in a lump and gesturing to the other layers still folded up in the basket.

“We’re going on a hunting trip,” Dean reiterates, enunciating each word pointedly. “We will be gone for a few days, so I hardly need my bed made now. Another servant can take care of it while we’re away.”

This makes Castiel blink with surprise. “You mean—I’m to go with you.” Dean only looks at Castiel expectantly, and Castiel says, “Right. Of course I’m going with you.”

“Pack,” Dean says impatiently.

“Sire, are you sure that’s wise?” Bobby says.

“I can’t stay here forever,” Dean says. “It’s been _two months_ , Bobby. I’ll go stir-crazy cooped up in here.”

“Very well,” Bobby says. He puts his back to Dean then and mouths to Castiel, _We aren’t finished._

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Dean asks, passing by Bobby and sitting down on the unmade bed. Castiel can’t help but frown at the wrinkles that appear in the sheets he _just_ flattened out. “Were you looking for me?”

“Oh. No, I—thought I’d check your chambers.”

“Check my chambers for what?”

Bobby gives Dean a pointed look. “For anything that could be disrupting your rest,” the old man says. “I have learned from experience that certain arrangements can prevent restful sleep.”

“Of course,” Dean says, something funny about his tone, but Castiel can only see the back of his head, cannot gauge what it is that Dean might be feeling. He surmises, however, that this is somehow about Dean’s nightmares. What if Dean has suspicions about Castiel and sent Bobby here to confirm them?

Does Dean know about him?

“It can wait until you’ve gone,” Bobby says. “I’ll return later.”

Dean nods, and Bobby exits the room, leaving Dean and Castiel alone. It’s silent for a moment, and then Dean twists to lie down. His eyes land on Castiel, still standing beside the bed, and he scowls.

“What are you waiting for? I thought I told you to pack.”

“Oh. Yes—of course,” Castiel says, moving away from the bed and toward Dean’s wardrobe. “Before we leave, can I tell my mother that I’ll be gone for a few days?”

“If you have time after you’ve finished packing, you can use it as you like,” Dean says. “I’m going to have a nap, so don’t make too much noise.”

Castiel looks over his shoulder and sees Dean sliding under the only fur coverlet that made it onto the bed. “All right,” he says.

Dean lifts his head, frowning. “ _Yes, sire_.”

Castiel ignores Dean’s obvious intent and says, “You can call me ‘sire’ if you wish, but I hardly think it’s appropriate.”

The words take a moment to register with Dean, and then he’s sitting up, a mixture of amusement and indignation on his face. “Castiel, come here.”

“I’d really rather not,” Castiel says, and the predatory glint in Dean’s eyes makes Castiel tense up, fight or flight response kicking in.

“Then I guess I’ll have to go to you,” Dean says.

Castiel bolts for the door before Dean has even finished speaking, but quick as lightning, Dean is up and off the bed, and the bed is closer to the door than the wardrobe is.

A large hand grasps Castiel’s shoulder, and he dips that shoulder, shaking Dean off. But Dean’s other hand wraps around Castiel’s wrist, vicelike, and Castiel gets spun around to face his pursuer. He lets a fist fly at Dean’s face, fully expecting the arm that comes up to block him, but Dean eyes are wide with surprise—he certainly hadn’t expected Castiel to put up a fight.

They remain there just a moment, and then Dean is in motion, making a grab for Castiel’s throat.

Castiel turns to run, but a foot hooks around his ankle, making him stumble and pitch forward. Dean’s thick arm loops around his waist, and Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean was intending to save him from a fall, but Castiel has already lost his balance, and gravity cannot be denied.

He crashes to the floor, Dean on top of him. Castiel tries to get his hands under himself, but he took the brunt of the fall, and Dean recovers faster than he does. Dean straddles the backs of his thighs, and when Castiel starts to push up, Dean grabs his arms out from under him, shoving his chest to the ground and pinning his wrists at the small of his back.

Castiel struggles against Dean’s hold, and it’s disconcerting to find that he can’t wrest his wrists from Dean’s one-handed grip. He hadn’t thought he’d gotten so weak, but he supposes it makes sense. He was weakened by his ordeal in Delmonica, and in the time since, while he has regained some body mass, he hasn’t trained as he did when he was in the army. Dean, on the other hand, was already in excellent physical health in Delmonica, and he has trained rigorously every day since his return. It stands to reason that he’d be physically stronger than Castiel.

Dean’s free hand presses down on the back of Castiel’s neck then, and Castiel turns his head to the side, forces his arms to go limp in Dean’s hold.

“Sometimes, I think you forget who I am,” Dean says conversationally.

“How could I? No one else could be as insufferable as you are,” Castiel says, cheek pressed into the cold stone floor. He hardly knows why he’s _still_ baiting Dean, but he doesn’t think he can stop.

“Insufferable? I’ll show you insufferable,” Dean says.

The hand on the back of his neck slides around to the front and pulls upward, forcing Castiel to lift his torso or have his air supply cut off.

“W-wait. Dean, wait,” Castiel says, and Dean pulls harder. Castiel thrashes, arms jerking, muscles all along his back straining at the unnatural arch of his spine.

“Do you even know who you’re talking to?” Dean says.

“Dean,” Castiel answers, and Dean tightens his grip, unforgiving.

“ _Cas_ ,” the prince says, “this sort of impertinence can get you killed. You really ought to learn your place.”

“S—sire,” Castiel chokes out, and gasps with relief when Dean relaxes his hold, lowers Castiel’s torso back to the floor.

Dean’s hand returns to the back of his neck, though, and he says, “‘Sire,’ what?”

Castiel doesn’t understand the question.

He finds himself wondering whether Dean would have reacted with such physicality before his imprisonment—his _training_ —with Alastair. It’s certainly irregular, pinning a servant like this to demand submission. It seems the more common punishment would be some allotment of time in the stocks.

“Don’t you think you owe me an apology?” Dean prods when Castiel takes too long to respond.

Licking his lips, Castiel elects to surrender. “Sorry,” he says, voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat.

“Good. Now, put those words together.”

“Sorry, sire.”

“ _There_ you go. I knew you couldn’t be a complete idiot,” Dean says.

“Can you let me up now, sire?” Castiel asks.

“How polite of you,” Dean says, obviously enjoying himself. “But I think you can do better than that. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably under Dean’s weight, and Dean’s hands tighten where they’re holding onto him—both around his wrists, and around the back of his neck. He must have taken the movement for another sign of disobedience. Probably best to humor him—Castiel has baited him enough for one day.

“Please, sire, can I get up now?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Dean says, but his tone has lost a touch of the amusement that was there before—has Castiel pushed him too far?

True to his word, though, Dean’s hands lift away, and then the weight over Castiel’s thighs vanishes. Castiel pushes himself up onto hands and knees and then gets to his feet, rolling his head back and forth, side to side. He wonders whether he’ll bruise.

When he turns around, he sees that Dean is moving back toward the bed. Castiel starts toward the wardrobe, but when Dean hears his footsteps, he looks back over his shoulder, and Castiel pauses in his tracks, waiting for Dean to speak.

“You can go,” Dean says.

Castiel frowns. “You wanted me to pack your things. Sire.”

“We have time. Tell your family you’ll be gone for a few days.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, surprised. “Thank you, sire. I’ll be quick.”

Dean only nods and continues toward his bed. Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Castiel hurries from the prince’s chambers.

* * *

As soon as Castiel’s footsteps fade outside Dean’s room, he gets up and locks the door. He had come over here with every intention of returning to the bed, but he leans back against the door instead, pressing his hand against the bulge at the front of his breeches and biting back a moan.

It’s incomprehensible. Dean has wrestled with the knights countless times, has pinned men down and been pinned himself, but never before has he had this reaction—never before has he grown hard with want, with lust, and he is angry with himself, ashamed of himself, for his lack of control.

But _god_ , how he _wants_. He hardly even knows _what_ it is he wants from Castiel, just knows that _Cas_ is what he wants.

He remembers the way Cas’s tongue had peeked out to lick his lips, and the image makes heat flicker in his gut. Caught up in the fever of it, Dean fumbles with the ties on his breeches, loosens them enough that he can slide his hand inside and cup himself, hot and hard and heavy, throbbing, and he rolls his hips, grasps his prick and shudders at the sensation.

It’s unacceptable to behave like this, to be so affected by a man. Absolutely unacceptable. But it is _unbearable_ , and Dean can’t stop, fucks the tight circle of his fingers in rough thrusts.

Again he pictures Castiel licking his lips, relishes the heat that flashes through his entire body at the mental image, and—more. He needs _more_.

Castiel dropping to his knees, then, face upturned. Licking his lips, opening his mouth wide, waiting for Dean to—oh god, to push his cock inside.

“God, fuh— _fuck_ ,” Dean chokes out, lifting his left wrist and biting down on it to stifle himself as he speeds up the motions of his right hand.

In his mind’s eye, Castiel’s hands rest on his thighs as he goes deep, plush pink lips wrapped around Dean’s prick, dark eyelashes resting on flushed cheeks, and yes— _yes_ —

Then Castiel’s eyes flick up, but they’re not just Castiel’s, practically _glowing_ —

Dean comes with a muffled groan, stroking himself through it all, unable to rid himself of the image of _those_ eyes, coming out of Castiel’s face.

When he is spent, he sags against the door, trying to catch his breath as the reality of what he just did comes crashing down around him.

Fuck. _Fuck_. It’s an enchantment. It _must_ be.

* * *

Castiel returns to the house he grew up in and is surprised to see Balthazar sitting at the table, reading.

“Where’s Mother?” he asks, stepping into the room and casting a second look around, as though she’ll appear straight out of the woodwork.

“Gone to fetch water,” Balthazar replies. “You look well—more meat on your bones. You were on the verge of simply fading into nothing when you returned from Delmonica.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just asks, “Why aren’t you in the barracks?”

“We’ve been given a day off. I elected to spend it with Mother,” Balthazar says. Without missing a beat, he shoots back, “Why aren’t you in the castle?”

“I was just told—I’m required to accompany the prince on a hunting trip. I’ll be gone for a few days, and I just wanted to make sure Mother knew, so she wouldn’t worry.”

“So she _wouldn’t_ worry?” Balthazar says, lips thin. “Cas, you do realize that knights often accompany the princes on their hunting trips, don’t you? You could be recognized.”

“I’ve been in the prince’s service for over a month, and no one has recognized me yet,” Castiel says. Before his brother can argue, he hurries on, “I’ve been in the presence of several knights—Sirs Michael, Victor, and Calvin have seen me on multiple occasions. I’m only a servant, Balthazar. I’m practically part of the scenery to them. And when I was in the army, I was only a foot soldier—one in two hundred.”

“Yes, one in two hundred of Michael’s winged soldiers,” Balthazar says.

“Michael has looked me straight in the face,” Castiel says. “He did not recognize me, and I doubt he ever will recognize me, unless I am put back into the context with which he is familiar—unless I end up clad in armor again.”

Balthazar shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’re risking so much.”

“The prince demanded my service, personally,” Castiel says. “It would’ve been a greater risk to defy him.”

“You could leave. Mother said that—that you’d think about it. Have you?”

“I’ve given it some thought, but this is my home. You’re here. Mother is here. I couldn’t possibly leave. And besides, I’ve no idea where I would go.”

“But Cas—”

“Arguing with me will not change my mind,” Castiel interrupts, and Balthazar sighs heavily.

“No, I suppose it won’t,” he concedes.

“I need to return to the castle—the prince’s things haven’t been packed yet. Tell Mother, would you?”

“Of course.”

Castiel hesitates, on the verge of turning around the walking right back out of the house, but the resignation on his brother’s face makes his chest ache, and he finds himself moving in the opposite direction, edging around the table. Balthazar guesses his intention and stands, turning in time to be embraced, and Castiel just holds him for a moment, grateful, relieved.

“Take good care of yourself, Cas. If you get yourself killed, I don’t know what’ll happen to Mother, or to me,” Balthazar says quietly, words spoken into the side of Castiel’s head.

“I’m certain you would both live on fine,” Castiel says, backing up. “But I’ll take care of myself just the same, I promise,” he adds quickly, before Balthazar can protest.

“Yes, well, you’d better. Now run along—your prince awaits you.”

* * *

By the time Castiel returns from bidding his mother farewell, Dean has cleaned up after himself—he’d mostly spilled within the confines of his smallclothes, some in his breeches, so he’d just stripped out of both pieces of clothing, tossing them into a laundry basket and finding himself some clean clothes.

Contrary to what he has led Castiel to believe, Dean actually _can_ dress himself. Of course, as a royal, custom dictates that he be waited on hand and foot, and Dean typically has no quarrel with letting a servant complete banal tasks for him.

Yes, the physical clean-up was quick, easy.

The rest of it, though—Dean hardly knows what to make of it. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t seem to _stop_ thinking about it, either. He reached completion fantasizing about a _man_. There is nothing mistakable about Castiel, no particularly effeminate features about him, all hard angles and long, skinny limbs. Though there is something about the shape of his mouth that isn’t—isn’t _effeminate_ , but it is—pleasing to the eye. And speaking of eyes…

This train of thought is not helping. Dean shakes his head, trying to clear it.

He levers himself off his bed and heads toward the door, determined to put the whole debacle out of his mind, so of course this is the moment Castiel chooses to reenter the chamber. Dean stops himself just short of being hit by the opening door, and Castiel takes one step inside before seeing Dean and freezing, lips parting on a quick inhale.

For a split second, Dean thinks he’ll lean down and kiss those lips. Insanity.

“Sire,” Castiel says, and _oh_. A shiver of heat runs down Dean’s spine. This is bad.

“Cas,” Dean responds, the rest of his servant’s name getting lost somewhere on the way from Dean’s mind to his mouth. His gaze drops from Castiel’s lips to his neck then, and he sees marks only just beginning to show.

“I thought you were going to have a nap,” Castiel says when the silence grows too prolonged.

“Yes. It’s entirely your fault—I couldn’t sleep after that tussle,” Dean says, which is true, though not for the reason he wants Castiel to think.

“Ah,” Castiel says.

He steps fully into the room, closing the door behind him, and starts to edge past Dean, but before he can get far, Dean’s hand flies out, almost of its own accord, and closes around his elbow.

Castiel gets spun a little, something apprehensive in his eyes when they find Dean’s. “Sire?”

“I—didn’t hurt you, did I?” Dean asks. “Earlier?”

“Of course not,” Castiel says, grinning, but Dean knows what he saw, knows that he must have _actually_ scared Castiel today.

Dean thinks he shouldn’t like the thought of that as much as he does. Regardless, today wasn’t about hurting Castiel—it was about showing Castiel his place. “If I did hurt you, I didn’t mean to,” Dean says.

Castiel’s eyes narrow at that, and he says, “If you didn’t mean to do something, then you wouldn’t have done it. You can’t just wash yourself of your actions like that.”

Dean huffs, amused despite himself. “You do realize that it was this attitude that riled me up in the first place,” he says, taking a step closer. “One might think you’ve been provoking me intentionally, all this time that you’ve been in my service.

“Why would I do that?” Castiel asks.

Entire body humming with restless energy, Dean advances one more step, bringing them almost chest to chest. Castiel holds his ground, but he has to tip his head back a little to hold Dean’s gaze, and Dean might have no idea what this is about or how it started, but it’s a dance, or a battle, or both, and he intends to see it through.

“I was rather hoping you would tell me that yourself,” Dean says, voice low.

Castiel opens his mouth, but no words come out, and god, Dean wants to kiss him. Castiel licks his damned lips then, and Dean is on the verge of losing control and just going for it, but a knock on the door interrupts their—their _dance_ , and Castiel blinks, drops his gaze.

Despite his disorientation, Dean can tell that he and Castiel are standing far too close, that anyone who came in would have questions, questions that Dean would not be able to answer.

“Sire, Sam sent me to—” he hears, and then the footsteps entering the room come to an abrupt halt.

But Castiel is fiddling with the buttons on Dean’s tunic, as though he’d just helped Dean put it on, which—Castiel might actually be a _genius_.

“To?” Dean says nonchalantly, turning toward Sam’s servant as Castiel steps away.

“Sorry. To see if you were ready to leave,” Kevin finishes.

“It hasn’t been an hour,” Dean says. “What’s got him so impatient?”

Kevin shrugs. “You’re not the only one who gets restless in the castle, sire.”

Dean nods to concede his point. “I’ll be down as soon as this idiot finishes packing my things,” he says, jerking his head toward Castiel. “We’ll leave on time.”

“All right. I’ll bring your word to Sam, then.”

“Actually, I’ll just go with you,” Dean says. “I hardly need to be here while my things are being packed.”

Kevin nods, and Dean passes by him, heading for the door. He hears Castiel and Kevin exchanging greetings, and when he looks back over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Castiel rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. When did Castiel strike up such a friendly relationship with Kevin? Dean doesn’t think he’d ever noticed it before, but he supposes it makes sense, given all the time they must spend in each other’s company when Sam and Dean are together.

“All right, if you’re done mocking me behind my back, can we get going now?” Dean says, and gets a surprised laugh from Castiel. Kevin’s face goes red, and he hurries to follow Dean out of the chamber and down the corridor.

* * *

Castiel very nearly sinks to his knees after Dean leaves. Kevin may have unknowingly saved his life, today.

Dean suspects. Dean _must_ suspect something, now that he’s surmised that Castiel’s provocations are calculated. Castiel had tried to come up with an excuse, _any_ excuse, but he’d drawn a blank at the worst possible moment. He is certain that Dean will ask again, so he must come up with something—something believable, _irrefutable_ , that points away from enchantments and nightmares and Dean’s escape from Delmonica.

He can’t help but shiver at the barely veiled threat in Dean’s tone, low and lethal. It would be so easy for Dean to demand his death.

Maybe Castiel _should_ leave. Dean already suspects that he is hiding something, and if Dean tries to investigate, if he starts asking around, he is bound to find someone who knew that both Castiel _and_ Balthazar had been under Michael’s command. From there, well. That path leads straight to Castiel’s hanging.

But he has time yet. Surely Dean will allow him the chance to explain himself first. If Castiel comes up with an explanation that satisfies Dean, he won’t feel the need to investigate.

Now he just needs a rational explanation for—for _toying_ with the Prince of Winchester.


	6. Chapter 6

It turns out the hunting trip is an excellent way to avoid Dean.

When Castiel met Dean in front of the stables this afternoon, he’d been talking to Sam and Ruby. Kevin had been inside the stable, so Castiel had managed to slip right past his master to help with the horses.

Dean decreed that none of the knights would accompany them, but even with fewer numbers, it’s still simple enough to avoid Dean. Out here in the woods, there are no walls, so there is no privacy to be had—at least, not without ostensibly separating themselves from the group. Thankfully, Dean seems content to let this stay between them, at least for now. Castiel just needs to stick with Kevin for the duration of the trip, and he’ll return to Winchester unscathed.

Now if only he could come up with an acceptable reason for goading Dean. The only thing he can think of is curiosity, and that is—not optimal.

They’ve bedded down for the night, but Castiel sits awake—he’d volunteered to take first watch. Dean’s nightmares typically begin in the first two or three hours after he goes to sleep, so Castiel will wait until he has soothed Dean’s sleep before passing watch to Kevin.

He catches himself playing back the events of this afternoon, reanalyzing everything he can remember about Dean’s actions. Their first encounter had been more physical than Castiel would have expected, but it was nothing extraordinary. The prince is, after all, a strong man. It makes sense that he would use that strength to discipline a servant.

No, Castiel isn’t worried about his scuffle with the prince. Rather, it is their second conversation that has him shifting uneasily where he sits, leaning against a tree.

He can’t seem to forget the intensity in Dean’s eyes when he made his request, nor can he escape the undercurrent of danger that was in Dean’s tone. He wonders whether Dean would actually take the matter to the king. John would hardly care about an impertinent servant, and personal offenses to royals are subject to the offended party’s whims, anyway.

Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be much to worry about, but this is a time when everyone is on the lookout for a traitor in their midst—it is quite possibly the worst time for Dean to be questioning Castiel’s motives.

And the look in Dean’s eyes. It hadn’t been anger necessarily, but…

Castiel sighs, a soft sound. He should just tell Dean that he was curious and leave it at that. The simpler the explanation, the better. If he comes up with something too complicated, Dean will know that it is a lie. If Dean chooses not to believe him, then there is nothing more Castiel can do.

* * *

Dean sits up with a jolt, feeling jittery all over.

“Sire?”

That’s Kevin. Dean frowns, disoriented, and then he realizes that he’s outdoors, that he is here with Sam, Kevin, and Ruby.

“Sire, are you all right?” Kevin asks, voice hushed.

“Yes, fine,” Dean replies. “How long—when did Castiel go to sleep?” he asks, remembering that Castiel had volunteered to take first watch.

“Not long ago,” Kevin says. “I think I only heard his breathing even out a few minutes ago.”

“All right,” Dean says, glancing to his left, where his manservant lies.

“Rest, sire. I can keep watch,” Kevin says, and Dean nods, lies back down.

He shifts onto his side, away from Kevin, and looks at Castiel’s profile—the proud line of his nose, the gentle curves of his lips. It occurs to him that he has never seen Castiel asleep before. He has never been curious about his servants’ sleeping habits in the past, and this is only his first ride with Castiel.

He seems so peaceful like this, so innocuous, yet he has this—this unholy, impossible hold over Dean. He had never seemed aware of it before, but after today, Dean has begun to doubt. What if Castiel _does_ know and has been prodding at Dean precisely because he knows that Dean is being influenced by him?

Father thinks that Castiel could have been the one to poison him. Dean instinctively disagrees, but—it is possible. Dean was drawn to Castiel inexplicably, chose to replace Garth practically on a whim, just to have Castiel nearer. In this context, it certainly seems like Castiel could have placed an enchantment on Dean, in order to gain access to the castle.

But why would Castiel have waited a whole month before taking action? That doesn’t make sense. And why go to the trouble of helping Bobby research the poison and create the tincture?

Castiel sniffs and turns to face Dean, shifting underneath his blanket, and Dean finds himself looking closely at the way the moonlight casts half of his face into shadow, the way it softens the jut of his visible cheekbone, makes his skin seem paler, softer.

Dean doesn’t notice Castiel’s eyelids fluttering, so when his eyes flick open, Dean stiffens, startled. Castiel’s sleepy blue eyes grow quickly alert when he realizes he has an audience, and Dean just shakes his head minutely, willing Castiel to keep quiet. By the light of the moon, Dean can see the muscle in Castiel’s jaw working, like he is biting back words, and Dean just watches him, blatant, because between the two of them, Dean cannot be the one to back off.

Dean half-expects Castiel to roll onto his other side to escape Dean’s scrutiny, so he is surprised when the Castiel stays right where he is and simply closes his eyes.

At length, Dean’s eyelids grow heavy, and he shuts his eyes, too.

* * *

In the morning, they ride farther west. By noon, Dean has felled two hares, but Sam has shot a stag, and the brothers volley back and forth over who is the more accomplished hunter. When eyes turn upon the servants, Castiel holds his tongue, as does Kevin. Sam asks Ruby, but Dean interrupts before she can even answer, discrediting her because she is obviously biased toward Sam.

Castiel and Kevin leave the brothers mid-debate to skin and gut the hares for dinner—the stag will be brought back to the City, to give the brothers something to show for their trip.

“They can be really insufferable,” Castiel comments to Kevin, a little absentmindedly. He expects Kevin to join him in commiserating, so when he hears nothing, he looks to his left and sees those almond-shaped eyes watching him, curious and concerned alike. So Castiel asks, “What is it?”

“Your neck,” Kevin says.

“What about it?” Castiel asks, resuming his work.

“You’ve been wearing that scarf, but I saw you take it off for a bit yesterday. I know what’s under it.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Castiel says. “I’m only wearing the scarf to keep warm.”

“Then tell me: did Dean do that to you?”

Castiel shrugs one shoulder, trying for indifference. “I was impertinent one time too many, it seems. He was well within his rights.”

“Castiel, wait,” Kevin says, setting down his hare and grasping Castiel’s knife hand to make him stop working. “If Dean did this to you, we need to tell someone about it—Bobby, or Sam, or—”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says slowly. “He’s _Prince Dean_. It doesn’t matter if he smacks a servant around a little.”

“No, but this is Dean we’re talking about,” Kevin says. “He would never raise a hand to anyone who couldn’t defend themselves.”

That’s—unexpected. “Not even disobedient servants?” Castiel asks.

“Please. Dean doesn’t have the patience to suffer disobedience or incompetence. If he really were angry with a servant, he’d put them in the stocks or just have them fired.” Kevin’s hands lift as he finishes speaking, but he pauses, says, “May I?”

Kevin already knows. He may as well see. “You may,” Castiel says with a sigh.

Kevin hisses as he removes Castiel’s scarf, eyes sympathetic. “The bruises look worse than they did yesterday,” he says. “I have to tell Sam—you understand, don’t you? We’ve been trying to keep an eye on Dean—anything that might have changed since he uh, since he got back. This is—drastic.”

“I would prefer it if no one else knew,” Castiel says.

“But—”

“It’s enough that you and I are aware, isn’t it? There is nothing that Sam can do to help Dean, anyway. Telling him would only make him worry,” Castiel reasons.

Kevin hesitates, considering it, and finally says, “Yes, you’re right. If we do take this to anyone, it should be Bobby. But that’ll have to wait until we return to the City.”

“I agree,” Castiel says. Kevin drapes the scarf back around Castiel’s neck again, rearranging it carefully, and as Kevin picks his hare back up, Castiel says, “Thank you, Kevin.”

Distantly, Castiel hears the clanging of metal against metal, and he stands, dropping his hare to the forest floor. He and Kevin exchange glances, and then they race back toward camp.

Upon their return, they find Sam, Dean, and Ruby in the midst of a battle against a group of bandits. Castiel counts four—five, six—no, _eight_ men, surrounding the three of them. Castiel and Kevin charge in, hollering loudly to startle the bandits, and it works—the circle breaks up, and the fight turns around.

Sam and Dean can defend themselves, and Ruby does not seem to be in immediate danger either, so Castiel turns his attention to his immediate left. Kevin isn’t a fighter—that much becomes quickly obvious to Castiel. But he’s _quick_ , dodging the swings of the man coming at him with a sword, more than capable of keeping himself out of harm’s way.

Castiel does a bit of dodging himself, making sure that no members of his party are paying attention to him before quickly dispatching the first man that comes at him. The second stops short, frightened by Castiel’s show of skill, but Castiel races right up to him, ducking his frantic horizontal swing and sticking the dagger covered in hare’s blood into his neck. Castiel tries to leap back, but he can’t avoid the arterial spray and ends up half-drenched in the man’s blood.

Turning his attention to the others, he sees a man throwing a blade at Dean from behind, too far away for Castiel to stop physically, but before he can even think to pull upon his magic, the blade stops midair, suspended, and it seems as though time itself has slowed down.

How—

And then Castiel sees Sam’s hand extended, Ruby fighting off two bandits at his back to defend him.

 _Prince Sam_ of _Winchester_ has _magic_.

Then the blade swings into motion, ricocheting back on the bandit who threw it. He spins around and tries to escape, but his weapon buries itself into his back, and he falls.

Dean shoves his sword into one of his two adversaries, unaware of the magic that was just used right under his nose, by his own brother. The remaining bandits, seeing that four of their comrades have fallen, turn tail and run, scrambling away into the trees.

“Ha!” Dean says, a little breathlessly. He turns, eyes flitting around their camp as he sheathes his sword.

“Everyone all right?” Sam asks, also breathing hard. It seems using that bit of magic has drained him—he must not be very strong. Not yet, at least.

“Cas,” Dean says, striding toward him, concerned.

“I’m all right,” Castiel says, but then Dean is upon him, hands gripping his shoulders, checking for wounds, spinning him around to look at his back, and Castiel realizes that he must be a sight, covered in blood as he is. “It’s not my blood,” he says as Dean spins him back around.

“Did you—kill both of these men?” Dean asks, gesturing to the two men, one at Castiel’s feet, the other a few paces back.

“It’s all—a bit of a blur, sire,” Castiel lies, going for a slightly bewildered expression.

Dean looks at him in plain disbelief, but it seems there’s some relief in the smile that stretches his lips. “You are a miracle,” he says, shaking his head and clapping Castiel’s back. “Sammy, you all right?”

“Fine,” Sam says.

“Kevin?”

“Yes—here,” Kevin says. He looks shaken, and Castiel is startled to see that his hare, not yet skinned, is still dangling by its ears from his left hand.

The others seem to notice this at the same time, and maybe Ruby is the first one who lets out a slightly hysterical giggle, but they all end up laughing, Kevin included.

Eventually, the giggles subside, and they all agree that it’d be best to head back toward the City, after they’ve eaten. But they’re a little more than a full day’s ride away, and they’ve only half a day left for traveling before nightfall, so it seems they’ll have to spend one more night in the wilderness.

About half an hour’s ride from their clash with the bandits, they come across a stream, and Dean grants Castiel’s request to clean himself off. The blood has dried by then, caked on, but Castiel manages to scrub most of it from his skin. There isn’t much to be done about his clothes, though, not without proper soap, so he just rinses everything off and changes into some clean clothing, shoving the wet scarf, tunic, and breeches into his knapsack.

It is only after he returns to the others that he realizes he only brought the one scarf, and his neck is now on display. Sam and Ruby are in the middle of a conversation, and they don’t seem to notice, but Dean’s eyes linger on his neck, and Castiel licks his lips, swallows hard. According to Kevin, that sort of violence from Dean was unheard of before his stay in Delmonica. Castiel wonders what the prince thinks when he sees the marks he left behind.

After a light supper, everyone beds down, and Castiel volunteers again to keep first watch.

Dean’s sleep grows restless after about two hours, like clockwork, and Castiel goes over to him, gently rests his fingertips at his temple to quiet his mind. The prince’s face smooths out instantly, and Castiel returns to his post, figuring that he can keep watch for a little while longer before waking Kevin to take over.

A few minutes later, though, Sam sits up with a soft groan, looking around, and Castiel straightens where he’s sitting, curious.

But Sam extends a hand in Castiel’s direction, gesturing for him to stay put, and whispers, “I’m all right. Just need to take a piss.”

The prince wanders off into the trees, and Castiel remains in place for a moment, debating whether he should follow. He needs to speak with Sam about what he saw today, needs to understand, and it might be better—safer—to do it here, away from the castle, where there’s a far smaller risk of being overheard.

Making up his mind, Castiel gets to his feet, casting one more look over at the sleeping forms of Dean, Kevin, and Ruby, before heading off in the direction Sam had chosen.

He happens upon Sam just starting to come back, and the prince says, “Castiel. You startled me.”

“Sorry,” Castiel says. “I only wanted to speak with you.”

“All right,” Sam says hesitantly. “What about the others? You’re supposed to be keeping watch.”

“We’re close enough that we’d hear if something happened, I’m sure.” Before Sam can say anything else, Castiel says, “I saw what you did today.”

It’s dark, but there is just enough moonlight filtering in between the trees for Castiel to see the way Sam’s face tightens with worry. “I don’t—what are you talking about?” he tries nevertheless.

“You have magic,” Castiel says. “I saw you use it to save Dean.”

“I didn’t—”

Castiel shakes his head. “Sam— _sire_. I saw you stop that blade and turn it against its master,” he says. “I don’t intend on exposing you, but I just—I just wanted to ask—”

“There’s nothing to know,” Sam says. “It only started recently, and I—it wasn’t my choice, if that was what you were going to ask. It just _started_.” Eyeing Castiel warily, he asks, “Why aren’t you going to expose me? You’re a citizen of Winchester. It’s part of your duty to—”

“My duty is to your brother, first and foremost,” Castiel interrupts. “I am only doing what he would do—if he knew what I know, he would protect you, too.”

Sam’s head tips down a little, and Castiel can hear the resignation in his voice as he replies, “I doubt it.”

“Do you doubt his love for you?”

“Of course not. But our brotherly bond can extend only so far. We’re not blood, after all,” Sam says bitterly. “No, Dean’s loyalty lies with Father. _His_ father, really. Not mine. I hardly knew my own father.” Looking up at Castiel, Sam says, “So the question remains: why are you doing this?”

“I’m not lying to you,” Castiel says. “Perhaps you and I have a difference of opinion over what Dean would do if he knew about you.”

“Perhaps.”

After a pause, Castiel says, “I thought magic had to be taught.”

“Ruby has been helping me. She’s been teaching me how to control my powers, and how to channel them,” Sam admits. “But I don’t know where the magic came from, either. I must’ve been born with it.”

Castiel can hardly believe his ears. Maybe it’s more common than he thinks, being born with magic. He _isn’t the only one_.

“Even if you learn how to control your magic, it’s dangerous to use it,” Castiel says. “We’re in Winchester, after all. If the king found out, or caught you using it… and you’re his ward—you have to see him, interact with him, day in and day out.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I’ve been very careful. I only used it today because Dean would’ve died otherwise.”

“No matter how careful you are, someone could find out. _I_ found out, didn’t I?” Castiel says.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Sam says. “I can’t just stop using it. It’s _part_ of me. It’s—” he stops, the fire fading from his eyes a little, and says, “Oh, forget it. You don’t have magic—you don’t have a secret like this to hide. You couldn’t possibly understand.”

Castiel bites his tongue to keep from blurting out his secret. He feels that Sam is trustworthy, and he admires his devotion to his brother, but it has also become apparent that Sam has no secrets from Ruby, and Castiel cannot trust someone with whom he’s hardly traded five words.

“Does Kevin know?” Castiel asks finally.

“No,” Sam says. “No one. Just Ruby. And you, now. Look—Castiel, I know that you think magic is dangerous, but it isn’t always evil. I’ve been able to use it for good. You saw today—I used it to save Dean’s life. So just, don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“I won’t,” Castiel says. “I promise.”

Sam manages a small smile. “Thank you.”

They return to camp in silence, and Castiel lets Sam get situated before going to wake Kevin. Then he lies down at Dean’s side and closes his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him.

Prince Sam of Winchester has _magic_. Who would’ve thought?

* * *

They reach the castle the next day, just in time for dinner. Dean, of course, sends Castiel upstairs to clean his room and make sure his bed is readied for sleeping in—he hasn’t forgotten that Castiel didn’t have time to make his bed before they left on the hunt.

Fortunately, when Castiel enters Dean’s bedchamber, his bed has been made up, and the room _smells_ clean, at the very least. Castiel does a little dusting before deciding that he’s done enough. He has plenty of laundry to be doing, after all, so he unpacks his and Dean’s bags and hauls the soiled clothing down two flights of stairs to start washing it.

Halfway through the mound of clothing, he hears a man clearing his throat behind him, and he turns to see Bobby standing in the doorway, watching him.

“I’ve been searching for you,” the physician says, stepping into the room and closing the door. “We still need to finish our conversation.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Thank you for the grace period.”

“I could hardly fault you for Dean barging in when he did,” Bobby says. “It was inopportune timing.”

Castiel considers stopping what he’s doing, but it’ll be better if he has something to occupy his hands. Otherwise, he’ll probably fidget through this entire conversation. So he says, “I need to finish the laundry before suppertime, so if we could talk while I work…”

“Fine by me,” Bobby says, dragging a stool over. He situates himself beside the wash basin, across from Castiel, and waits, expectant.

“What do you want to know?” Castiel finally asks.

“Why are you in the castle?”

Easy answer. “Because the prince demanded it.” But Bobby raises a skeptical eyebrow, so Castiel says, “I never wanted a position in the royal household. I swear it.”

The old man still doesn’t seem convinced, but he presses on, “Have you ever cast a spell on Dean?”

Castiel clenches his jaw, unwilling to lie but unwilling to admit the truth, and scrubs harder at the garment in his hands. He happens to be working on his own blood-soaked tunic, and the stain is proving difficult to wash out.

“What spells _have_ you cast on him?”

Castiel pauses in his motions, looking up at Bobby in disbelief. He’d been so sure that Bobby would linger on that question—that Castiel’s silence would be his condemnation.

Correctly interpreting the bewildered look on Castiel’s face, Bobby says, “I’ve seen you cast spells before, in case you’d forgotten. I saw you use a spell to ease the king’s suffering. I will not send you to your death simply for using magic, Castiel.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, resuming his work. “I’ve been—I’ve been trying to soothe the prince’s sleep. I… I lied before. I recently started waking to his nightmares, and I’ve since tried to stop them. He seems to fall into a peaceful sleep when I’ve finished, but if he’s told you otherwise…”

“When did you start soothing his sleep?” Bobby asks.

“I’m not sure if I remember specifically,” Castiel says. “It was only two or three nights before we left for the hunt.”

“Ah,” Bobby says. “When Dean spoke with me that morning, he confided that he hadn’t had a dream for the past three nights. It seems your magic was effective.”

Castiel only nods. It is strange— _unnerving_ —to speak so freely about his abilities, and he has to fight the urge to look around for eavesdroppers, even though he knows they are alone in the room.

“Anything else?” Bobby asks, drawing Castiel from his thoughts.

“No. Nothing,” Castiel says instinctively.

“Are you sure about that?” Bobby asks, raising one eyebrow imperiously. “Do you remember what I said about blue eyes?”

Ah. So it is to be the _whole_ truth, then.

“Yes,” Castiel says reluctantly.

“And you expect me to believe that that had nothing to do with you.”

“No,” Castiel says. “I’d been hoping that you’d have forgotten about that by now.”

“I’m not _that_ old yet, boy. Now explain.”

Castiel wrings out his tunic and looks at the stain covering most of the front, still stark against the beige fabric. This tunic might be beyond saving. He drapes it over the edge of the basin and looks up at Bobby.

“Before I started intervening with Dean’s dreams, I cast a total of three enchantments on him. All of them were before I became employed in the royal household.”

When Castiel pauses, Bobby says, “Go on. I need details. What, when, where, why, and how.”

Castiel licks his lips, wipes at his mouth to try to hide his nerves, but he realizes even as he’s doing it that it only gives away his anxiety. “I was born in this kingdom,” he says. “I love it. Winchester is my home. I don’t want to leave.”

“I can’t promise you anything,” Bobby says, apparently savvy to Castiel’s unspoken question.

“The first was a cloaking spell. The second was for memory modification. The final was… I don’t know if I have a word for it. It… _propels_.”

“Tell me about the second one,” Bobby says, gaze intense. “You _altered_ his _mind?_ ”

“That’s what stopping his dreams essentially entails, too,” Castiel hedges.

“Yes, but preventing the nightmares is to help him. Why did you modify his memory?” Before Castiel can answer, Bobby says, “You were the one who found him, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel confesses. “I was part of the garrison sent to Delmonica to find and rescue Dean.”

“Only five soldiers returned. They claimed to be the only survivors,” Bobby says. “I met them all upon their return, examined them all. You were not among them.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I only escaped with my life because of magic. When I returned to Winchester, I couldn’t report for duty. My survival would have raised too many questions.”

“What you’ve done is equivalent to deserting the army, Castiel.”

“Yes.”

Bobby exhales slowly. “I take it the enchantments were to save Dean. It is not difficult to guess your motivation for the stealth spell, but what of the other two?”

“In order to help the others escape the capital, I created a diversion. I got caught,” Castiel says. “A man came to speak with me—to extract information.”

“Torture,” Bobby infers, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, but not at his hand. At Dean’s.”

As expected, Bobby’s eyes widen. His mouth even drops open a fraction, and it seems he has, for once, been rendered utterly speechless.

“I don’t know what sort of mental or physical torture was inflicted upon Dean during his time in Delmonica, but when I saw him, he did not speak—either could not, or would not. He was…” Castiel pauses, shuddering despite himself at the memories, and then finishes his thought, “…ruthless.”

“How long?”

“I believe it was ten days, but I really can’t be certain,” Castiel answers. “I hardly had any strength left after we’d escaped from the Delmonican capital, but when I tried to compel Dean to go home, he… he did nothing. It was as though he had no recollection of Winchester. I—I had no choice. I went into his mind to dig up his memories of Winchester, and while I was in there, I thought it’d be best to take away the memories of his suffering.”

This makes Bobby shake his head. “You _foolish_ —removing those memories took away Dean’s capability of finding closure, Castiel. The gap in his memory—he doesn’t know what happened to him, so he doesn’t know how to move on from it.”

“The stench of it clung to _everything_ , Bobby,” Castiel says. “His mind felt—ill. _Diseased_. I was only there for a moment and even _I_ could hardly stand it. Frankly, I don’t think Dean would be functional now, if he still retained those memories.”

“Castiel—”

“His experiences rendered him mute,” Castiel interrupts. “He followed his captor’s directions without question—without _thinking_. Don’t you think the memory of those experiences would’ve been far worse to recover from than a stretch of lost memories?”

Bobby rubs at his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what he experienced, so I can’t know whether you did the right thing.” Castiel opens his mouth to argue that he only did the best he could, but before he can say a word, Bobby continues, “What I _do_ know is that if you’re telling the truth, then you are the reason why Dean is back with us.” Meeting Castiel’s eyes, he adds, “And for that, thank you.”

Castiel clears his throat. “I was only doing my duty. I was part of a group of men tasked with bringing the prince home.”

“A hundred and ninety-four of those men are now dead. Five barely escaped with their lives. You alone retrieved the prince,” Bobby says. “You will not get thanks from anyone else for it, so you should accept my gratitude.”

“You… don’t intend on exposing me to the king, then,” Castiel says tentatively.

“No,” Bobby says. “But if I ever get even the slightest inkling that you’ve used your powers for nefarious purposes, I will not hesitate to bring the truth about you straight to him.”

“You won’t have to,” Castiel says.

“I hope you’re right.”

Not a moment too soon, the door opens, and Castiel hurriedly grabs the next article of clothing from the basket on the floor beside him.

“Oh—you’re both here,” the newcomer says, and Castiel immediately places the voice as Kevin’s.

Looking over his shoulder, Castiel says, “Hello, Kevin.”

Kevin nods and draws up a stool to sit beside Bobby. “I wanted to talk to both of you.”

“I gathered that,” Bobby says. “What about?”

“Castiel and I have something to tell you,” Kevin says, and Castiel holds back a sigh.

“Is that so?”

Kevin nods again and says, “Castiel, take off your scarf.”

Castiel briefly entertains the possibility of refusing, but Bobby already knows so much—he may as well know about the rest of it. Dropping the newly wetted tunic into the wash basin, Castiel wipes his hands against his breeches before reaching up and tugging his scarf off.

Bobby immediately hisses, leaning forward to get a closer look, and Castiel tilts his chin upward to give him an unobstructed view.

“What happened?” Bobby asks, but Castiel is certain the old man has already come to a conclusion.

“It was Dean,” Kevin says. “I didn’t see it happen, but I saw the bruises and asked Castiel.”

“I disobeyed him,” Castiel says. “I didn’t think much of his reaction until Kevin said that that sort of behavior was not typical of Dean.”

Bobby frowns. “No, it isn’t typical. Dean tends not to lay hands on anyone who can’t fight back.”

“I thought we should tell Sam, but Castiel said we shouldn’t.”

“I agree with Castiel,” Bobby says. “The three of us can keep a close enough eye on Dean. We shouldn’t worry Sam with this. And I certainly don’t want it getting to John.” After Castiel and Kevin nod, Bobby says, “Now, put that scarf back on. I’ll fetch you some ointment for those bruises, to make them fade faster.”

“Thank you, Bobby.”

The physician gets to his feet and walks past the wash basin, toward the door. Castiel picks the tunic back out of the basin and starts squeezing the water out of it.

“Oh, Castiel, I’d almost forgot,” Bobby says, and Castiel half-turns so he can see him. “Your brother came to the castle earlier today, looking for you. He said your mother was ill.”

“Ill? Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Castiel asks worriedly.

“I saw her already. It is just a fever, and I’ve left medicine with her. Some rest will put her right, but she’ll need someone to look after her.”

“I should go, then,” Castiel says. “My brother is a soldier; he has to stay in the barracks.”

“I’m sure Dean would grant permission for you to take care of your mother,” Kevin says.

Castiel looks back down at the basket overflowing with clothes and heaves a sigh. “There’s still so much to be done.”

“I can help you out,” Kevin says. “Go to Dean and tell him you won’t be able to attend to him for a short while. I don’t doubt another servant could step in for you, just for a day or two.”

“Yes, Castiel,” Bobby agrees. “Talk to Dean. And come to my quarters before you leave the castle. I’ll get you that ointment.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you both,” he says, and follows Bobby out of the room. Bobby turns left to go toward his quarters, and Castiel heads in the opposite direction, toward the staircase that’ll take him up to Dean’s bedchamber. He can only hope that Dean is actually there right now.

* * *

The room is dim, lit by a couple candles placed around the room. It’s light enough for him to work, though, and that’s all that matters.

He looks into its eyes, fiery and unyielding, and shivers. It is in chains, yet _he_ is the one trapped.

He drags a knife across its chest, careful not to dig in too deep because Alastair wouldn’t like that. It cries out, mouth open to reveal two rows of white teeth, but even when he twists the knife to make a point, it doesn’t close its eyes. And as long as those eyes are open, he can hardly look away.

Then it smiles, weak but somehow strong, and he can’t help but look at the creases formed at the corners of its eyes, at the sparkling shade of blue he’s never seen anywhere else.

“Dean.”

Its voice is broken, cracked, gritty, but the word is unmistakable. He doesn’t know what it means, but it seems to pull on something inside him.

Why won’t it _break?_

He lifts the knife and points it at one of those blue, blue eyes, tip hovering centimeters away from the pupil, and it holds still, perfectly still. He thinks he sees fear in those eyes for the very first time, and it’s unbelievable how satisfying the sight is.

Blood drips down from the knife, landing on its cheekbone, and he’s fascinated by the red against its skin. So he drags the flat of the knife along its cheek, over the bridge of its nose, and grins at the thick smears of blood left behind. He brings the blade down to its mouth, and it finally turns its head to the side, trying to hide.

It hasn’t broken, but he can make it feel fear. And if it can fear, it can break. He just has to keep working at it.

He grips its chin with his free hand and forcibly turns its head back to face him, squeezing at the hinges of its jaw to force its mouth open. Those dry, pink lips part, and he meticulously paints them red with blood, never once breaking the skin. It shudders in his grasp, and when he releases its chin, it keeps its mouth open, wary of cutting itself on the knife resting across its bottom lip.

He doesn’t realize that he’s dropped the knife until it clatters to the floor, but before he can even think to pick it back up, he catches sight of its eyes, wide and startled. Its mouth is still open, lips blood-red and inviting, as though it’s forgotten, and he can’t resist, has to lean in for a taste, licking up the blood on those surprisingly soft lips before pressing his tongue into its mouth. It makes a muffled sound, trying to turn away, but he cups its head between his hands, holding it still as he takes what he wants.

Alastair wouldn’t mind this. This wouldn’t hurt it beyond healing, after all. From the tension in its frame, this might affect it even more than physical pain does.

He pulls back to catch his breath, searching immediately for those blue eyes, but they’ve closed— _they’ve closed_ —and he feels _lost_ —

But then they flutter open again, crystal blue, and it says, _Cas_ says, breathless, “ _Dean_ ,” and—

—Dean sits up abruptly, drenched in cold sweat, heart pounding so fast it almost hurts.

He’s also achingly hard, and he’s not quite awake enough to stop himself from collapsing back against the bed, shoving his smallclothes down to his thighs, and grasping his cock, groaning at the feeling.

The images of blood against tanned skin, of blue eyes coming out of a bloodied face, _Castiel’s_ face, are still fresh in his mind’s eye, and he tightens his fist, strokes harder, faster. It had felt so real, real enough that Dean can almost feel those blood-coated lips under his, can almost taste the inside of Cas’s mouth.

He groans again, sensation winding tighter and tighter within him, until it finally explodes out of him, pleasure sharp and all-consuming.

Dean allows himself a few minutes to catch his breath, drifting in a nameless, shapeless void, more relaxed than he thinks he’s ever been.

But when he regains his breath, he realizes what he’s done, and it is shocking, terrifying, that he can find pleasure in another man’s pain—in a _man_ in the first place. He’d felt good right after reaching his peak, euphoric, but now, chest covered in ropes of his own spend, he feels shameful, angry, _dirty_.

Belatedly, he remembers the name that had surfaced in his dream—Alastair.

 _Alastair_.

Who _is_ that? Just thinking the name makes Dean shudder, something inside him recognizing it. Was he somehow involved in Dean’s capture? Bobby said that dreams have a lot to do with subconscious fears and desires. Dean cannot remember anything about this Alastair, can’t even put a face to the name, but he knows inherently that he fears the man, without knowing why.

He needs to discuss this dream with someone, but—he looks down at his chest, the evidence of some obscene part of his psyche, and drops his head against the pillows, exhaling sharply.

Perhaps he can mention Alastair alone. The torture too, maybe. Dean doesn’t want to think that he’s dangerous, but after that nightmare, it seems he is capable of horrible things. Bobby should be told.

Cas, though.

Dean won’t mention Cas. The man has nothing to do with Dean’s capture, after all. It is Dean’s strange obsession that has woven Castiel into his dreams, nothing more. No one needs to know that Dean can become aroused by his manservant.

Decision made, he kicks off his smallclothes and uses them to wipe off his spend before tossing them in the general direction of his laundry basket.

Damn this. Damn Castiel.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter. Sorry 'bout that! I haven't had much time to work on this fic lately (or any fic tbh). People in my department keep leaving and now we're down to just two worker bees (including myself) where we used to have like six. Basically, I'm really fucking stressed, and it sucks. BLAAARGH.

Mother doesn’t wake until midmorning.

Castiel spent the night seated at her bedside, only getting up just after sunrise to gather some herbs to be ground into her medicine.

She is pleased to see him, of course, but she doesn’t stay awake for long, drifting off after Castiel has helped her take her medicine. After she falls back asleep, Castiel lingers beside her, finding some comfort in seeing Mother’s face relaxed, not lined with worry the way it usually is when he’s with her.

“Sorry, Mother,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush some hair from her face.

He means to go on, but he hears a creak from the main room, and when he steps out from behind the divider, he sees Bobby pause mid-step, crossing the threshold.

“Castiel. I hoped I’d find you here,” the physician says.

“Where else would I be?” Castiel says, gesturing for Bobby to take a seat at the table.

Bobby does as he’s bid, shutting the door and moving toward the table. He sets a small bottle on the tabletop and says, “A tonic, to speed your mother’s recovery.”

“Thank you.”

“Is she awake now?”

Castiel shakes his head as he sinks onto the bench across from Bobby. “You look unsettled,” he observes. “What’s happened? Is Dean all right?”

“I wonder whether Dean will ever be all right,” Bobby says glumly, shaking his head. “That isn’t why I wanted to speak with you, though. This morning, Dean mentioned a name that I’d never heard before, and I wanted to know if you knew anything about it.”

“What was the name?”

“Alastair.”

Castiel does his best to keep a straight face when he hears the name, but he must give something away, because Bobby’s expression turns sympathetic.

“I take it you met him,” Bobby says.

“Met him,” Castiel repeats. “Yes, I met him. His was the first face I saw after being taken to my cell.”

“He was the man who tried to get information from you,” Bobby surmises.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “I gave him nothing, not even my own name.” Bobby only nods, and Castiel says, “Why did Dean say that name? Is he—does he remember—”

“No,” Bobby says. “He doesn’t remember everything. Or if he _does_ remember, he hasn’t mentioned it to me. He said that the name came to him in a dream.”

“Ah,” Castiel says, realizing his mistake—he’d gone straight home after getting permission to care for his mother, and he hadn’t given any thought to soothing Dean’s sleep. “I should have waited until after Dean went to bed to take care of my mother,” he says.

“That was no fault of yours. It’s only natural to want to care for your mother,” Bobby says. “I need to know everything you know about Alastair, though.”

“It’s not much,” Castiel says. “He was there to get answers from me—not to give me answers.”

“Regardless, tell me anything you remember. Did he have magic?”

Castiel shakes his head. “He did not. I’m very fortunate that he did not. He mentioned that a sorcerer was on the way to see me, to read the answers straight from my mind.” Considering, he adds, “He referred to Dean as his ‘star pupil.’ I feel reasonably certain that he was the one to torture Dean.”

“Well, Dean remembered him on his own, so you mustn’t have removed all of his memories.”

“I never intended to erase all of his memories. Only the ones that troubled his mind.”

“He looked plenty troubled when he came to me this morning,” Bobby says, lifting one eyebrow.

Castiel sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. “I was half out of my mind with fatigue, Bobby. And I was drained by the magic I’d used to help us escape. It’s a wonder that I managed to send Dean back to Winchester at all.”

“You’re right, of course,” Bobby acknowledges, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “You and I need to have contingencies in place, in case Dean really does recover all of his memories. He will know just how much magic you used to rescue him, and he does not keep secrets from his father. Dean will be grateful to you, no doubt, but I don’t think he’ll be grateful enough that he’ll commit treason.”

“Well. There’s nothing to be done about that,” Castiel says, a little bitterly.

“I’m sure he would try to make John see reason, but there is no reasoning with him about magic.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“In the event that Dean recovers his memories, you and I need to get to him first and convince him not to tell John right away.”

“Postponing the inevitable?” Castiel says. “Is that the only solution?”

“If it comes to that, our only solution will be to buy you enough time to get out of Winchester. Even so, knowing John, he’ll still send knights to capture you.”

“But if I left Winchester, why would he still—”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Bobby interrupts. “If he discovers that you’re a sorcerer, he’ll be furious that no one discovered it in all the time that you were working in the castle. He’ll want you captured and killed for escaping his notice for so long.”

“Of course,” Castiel says resignedly.

There’s a knock on the door then, and Castiel’s head jerks up sharply.

“You expecting anyone?” Bobby asks, frowning.

Castiel shakes his head. “Who’s there?” he calls.

“Prince Dean requires your presence,” a female voice says from the other side of the door.

Castiel hesitates a moment before getting to his feet and going to the door. “Is it urgent?” he asks the maid standing on the doorstep. “I’d like to prepare dinner for my mother before returning to the castle.”

The maid frowns and says, “I think the prince would prefer to see you sooner rather than later.”

“Just tell him I’ll be there soon, then,” Castiel says. Before she can protest, he adds, “Thank you.”

As the maid leaves, Castiel turns back toward the interior of the house and sees Bobby getting to his feet.

“I’ll leave you be,” the old man says. “You’ve things to do, places to go.”

Bobby comes closer, and Castiel stops him before he can pass to ask, “Why do you care?”

“Pardon?”

“About me. About what becomes of me. Why do you care?”

Bobby lowers his voice and says, “I do not believe magic is evil. I am aware of its great potential to do evil, but it has equal potential to do good. I want to save as many good sorcerers as I can—that is why I care about what happens to you. If that amounts to treason, then so be it.”

Respect swells up in Castiel’s chest at Bobby’s words, and he steps aside to let the old man out the door. “Thank you,” he says, heartfelt.

“Just be careful, boy,” Bobby says, gruff, and heads off toward the castle.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t arrive at the castle until halfway through dinner. As anticipated, Dean is not pleased.

“Ah, so _now_ you decide to turn up. If I’d had to wait for you to bring my dinner, I think I’d have starved.”

“I was still looking after my mother,” Castiel says.

“I excused you for the night. That doesn’t mean you can just shirk your daytime duties,” Dean says.

“My mother still needs to be cared for during the day. Illness doesn’t strike only at night.”

Dean huffs and lifts his goblet to take a drink from it. “I’ll send a servant to care for her, then. I need you to clean my room, polish my armor, and draw up a bath. I feel filthy.”

“Why can’t another servant see to those tasks while I see to my mother?”

“You’ve no right to question me. I’m the prince, and you’re to do as I say,” Dean snaps.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks, frowning. Dean seems especially short-tempered today, and Castiel cannot tell whether it is because he is late, or because Dean had a nightmare last night.

Dean looks at Castiel, impatient. “Did I not just tell you not to question me?”

Castiel nods. “Of course, sire. Sorry, sire.”

“I’d rather not have your false deference today.”

This makes Castiel raise his eyebrows. “You don’t like it when I don’t address you properly, and now you don’t like it when I do. There’s simply no pleasing you, is there?”

“Leave my chambers,” Dean says.

“But you wanted me to clean your room,” Castiel points out.

“You can polish my armor first, then. Just _get out_.”

The prince is in a foul mood, and Castiel has pressed enough. He nods, gathers Dean’s armor from the chest beside the wardrobe, and exits the room.

Insufferable bastard.

* * *

Dean loses his appetite as soon as Castiel enters his chamber. He is angry with Castiel, even though none of this is his fault. He can’t be held accountable for Dean’s thoughts, Dean’s actions, Dean’s dreams.

Yet Dean finds himself snapping at his servant anyway, petulant and unreasonable.

After Castiel retrieves Dean’s armor and leaves the room to polish it, Dean turns back to his dinner, only to find that he cannot stomach another bite. Frustrated, he pushes his chair away from the table and stalks from the chamber.

He goes down one flight of stairs, no destination in mind, and nearly bowls Kevin over in his haste.

“Sire,” Kevin says as he shrinks back, eyes wide.

“Sorry,” Dean says instinctively, one hand on Kevin’s shoulder and the other braced on the wall.

“Where were you going?” Kevin asks, taking a step back and slightly to the left, to let Dean pass.

“I…” Dean starts, but he draws a blank. “Nowhere,” he admits.

Kevin squints up at him and asks, “Are you feeling all right, Highness?”

Dean grins, and he’s surprised at how easily he manages it—at how the knot in his gut has untwisted itself. It’s near impossible to be angry when he’s looking at those doe eyes. “Is Sam being a worrywart?”

“Maybe a little,” Kevin says, rueful on his master’s behalf. “We’ve all been worried about you since you got back, sire. But I think you seem much better.”

“I _am_ much better,” Dean fibs. “You ought to tell Sam that he has nothing to worry about.”

“I’d tell him, but I doubt he’d believe me,” Kevin says. “He only ever has two things on his mind, these days.”

“ _Two_ things?” Dean repeats, mock-offended. “What could possibly occupy his mind as much as I do?”

“Ruby, of course,” Kevin says, and Dean starts at the clear note of bitterness in his tone.

“Kevin?”

The boy seems to have realized his mistake, though, and he just says, “Sire?”

“Ruby,” Dean says. “Why did you say her name like that?”

“I—didn’t,” Kevin says, but he almost immediately caves and says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t tell Sam.”

“Don’t tell Sam what?” Dean asks.

Kevin actually squirms. “You know what,” he says. “Sam likes Ruby very much. I don’t—want things to be awkward. Please, sire—don’t tell Sam that I don’t like her.”

“Why don’t you like her?” Dean asks, curious.

He hasn’t spent as much time with Ruby as Sam or Kevin has, but he finds her lively and comely, with a good sense of humor. It’s interesting that Kevin dislikes her as much as Sam likes her.

Kevin bites his lip. “My reasons don’t matter,” he says. “All that matters is that Sam likes her.”

“I’m curious,” Dean says.

“She walks around with the air of a royal, without having an ounce of royal blood in her,” Kevin says, voice lowered. “She expects to be waited upon hand and foot, even though none of it is deserved. She acts— _entitled_ , as though she is already a member of the royal family, and I just—”

“Already?” Dean says, frowning.

“What, are you blind to it, too? It’s obvious she hopes Sam will make her an offer. She carries on as though she is already his bride,” Kevin says, words coming out in a fervent rush. These thoughts have clearly been on his mind for quite some time.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way before,” Dean admits.

Kevin sighs, soft. “I know,” he says. Worry creeping into his eyes, he asks, “You won’t tell Sam, though, will you? Please.”

“Why don’t you want him to know your thoughts?”

“I would’ve thought that’d be obvious,” Kevin says. “Sam doesn’t keep secrets from Ruby—at least, not that I’ve seen. If I tell him how I feel about her, she’ll probably find out, and if they do end up married, it’ll only make things uncomfortable for me if she knows my opinion of her.”

“Ah,” Dean says. “Very well, then. Your secret is safe with me.”

Kevin exhales deeply, open relief on his face. “Thank you, sire.”

“Is Sam in his chambers?”

“Probably, yes,” Kevin says. “He and Ruby wish to go on an afternoon ride, so I was heading down to ready the horses.”

“Is Ruby with him?” Dean asks.

“For once, no,” Kevin replies. “She received a letter from her father, so she retired to her chambers to read it and compose her reply.”

“All right. You’re dismissed,” Dean says.

“Sire,” Kevin says, lowering his head in deference as he walks past Dean.

Dean watches the boy disappear around the corner before turning his footsteps toward Sam’s chambers. He may have agreed not to expose Kevin’s opinions on Ruby, but that doesn’t mean he can’t ask Sam about her, just to gauge his brother’s thoughts. Sam is still young—it is early yet to be thinking about marriage, but what Kevin said isn’t entirely impossible. Sam and Ruby have grown very close in the past weeks, and to be honest, Dean likes her well enough.

He knocks on the door to Sam’s bedchamber but doesn’t bother waiting for Sam to say he can come in.

“Sammy!” he says loudly as he steps inside.

Sam looks up from his food, startled. “Dean,” he says. “You should’ve said something ahead of time if you wanted to join me for dinner.”

“I already ate,” Dean says, pushing the door closed behind him and moving to join Sam at the table.

They sit in silence for a short while, Sam returning to his dinner and Dean fiddling with an empty goblet set on the table—it was probably Ruby’s. She has spent nearly all her time in the castle at Sam’s side, and now that Kevin has pointed it out, it seems so blatant that Dean can hardly believe he hadn’t considered it before.

He supposes he can’t blame her for wanting to marry into a higher standing; given the opportunity, he’s certain few would walk away. But Dean feels cautious now, hesitant, less approving of Sam’s attachment to the girl.

“So… was there something you wanted to talk about?” Sam asks eventually, as he finishes his meal.

Dean shrugs. “Where’s Ruby?” he asks, looking around as though noticing for the first time that she isn’t here. “Isn’t she always with you?”

“Not always,” Sam responds slowly, eyes narrowed. “Are you here to talk to me about her?”

“Well, she’s been our guest for a while,” Dean says. “Do you know how much longer she’ll be staying?”

“No. What—has she overstayed her welcome?”

“No, of course not,” Dean is quick to answer. “I was just thinking about her family, up north. Doesn’t she plan on seeing them again at some point?”

“Dean, what is this really about? Speak plainly.”

Dean briefly considers holding his tongue, but he has never been fond of lying to Sam. So he asks, “What are your intentions toward her?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Intentions?” he repeats.

“Yes. It hasn’t escaped my notice just how much time you spend with her. It’s natural to wonder whether Ruby will become—a permanent resident in the castle.”

“Do you mean—as my wife?” Sam says. “God, Dean—”

“I’m only curious,” Dean interrupts. “I’m not trying to put pressure on you, one way or the other.”

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Sam says. “We’re spending time together. That’s all. If it becomes something more… well. You’ll be the first to know, if that’s what you want.”

Dean nods, deciding to at least give off an air of satisfaction. He’ll have to watch Ruby closely in the coming days, to see if she tries to influence Sam. If Dean discovers that she has some sort of ulterior motive, he will see to it that she is banished.

“How is Castiel?” Sam asks, drawing Dean out of his thoughts.

“How do you mean?” he asks reflexively, a pulse of fear making him go still.

Does Sam know? Sam can’t possibly know.

“Oh, I heard from Bobby that his mother fell ill while we were on our hunting trip,” Sam says, and Dean berates himself for his paranoia.

Of _course_ Sam doesn’t know. Sam has a heart of gold. If he knew the things that Dean dreamed about Castiel—about the torture and the lust—he would have sent Castiel far, far away by now.

Sam goes on, “Is he all right? I’m sure he’s worried.”

Relief at Sam’s ignorance gives way to guilt, because Sam is right. Castiel may have arrived late to serve Dean, despite being summoned specifically, but he was taking care of his mother, and Dean shouldn’t have faulted him for that. Caring for one’s elders is only the right thing to do.

“Dean?” Sam prods, concerned now. “It’s not serious, is it?”

“Oh—sorry,” Dean says. “I uh, I hadn’t asked. But he showed up after dinnertime today and didn’t say much of it, so I think his mother will be fine.”

“You’re the most insensitive clod a man could have the misfortune of serving,” Sam says, shaking his head as he leans back in his seat. “I must express my sympathies for Castiel the next time I see him.”

“Shut your mouth,” Dean says, but it is difficult to put weight behind the words, because again, Sam is completely right, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.

“In all honesty, though, Castiel is—I think he is a good man,” Sam says, looking down at the table as he finishes speaking, and Dean doesn’t like the pensive look on his brother’s face.

Does Sam know something he doesn’t know? There’s something soft in his expression, some mixture of respect and fondness, that makes Dean’s insides twist, some ugly part of himself rearing its head in fury at the thought of someone knowing Castiel, having a claim on some part of him that Dean does not.

He’s taken aback at the violence of these feelings, gut-deep, absolute. Dean has no right to feel this way, yet he cannot stop it.

“Where did you get such a good impression of him?” Dean manages to ask, doing his best to ignore his roiling mess of emotions.

Sam meets Dean’s eyes and recoils, but it doesn’t seem to be for fear of what Dean will say or do. No, this is a more intimate fear—fear of what Dean might discover, and it only augments the jealousy mounting in Dean’s chest.

“He was very efficient on the hunt,” Sam says, but it sounds guarded, careful, and Dean cannot discern whether Sam is actually guarded, or if it’s just Dean’s mind, playing tricks on him. “When the bandits attacked our campsite,” Sam continues, “he was loyal. He didn’t have to come back to face the enemy with us, but he did.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Dean allows.

“Kevin likes him, too,” Sam adds, with a small smile, and this at least is genuine. “I trust his judgment.”

Dean is abruptly reminded of Kevin’s personal opinion of Ruby. He’s sorely tempted to share it, if only to see how much Sam will trust his servant’s judgment when he realizes that it condemns the woman he’s so fond of.

“The boy is wise beyond his years,” Dean says neutrally.

“He has impeccable instincts,” Sam adds, nodding in agreement. “I think he and Castiel have grown close since Castiel entered the royal household.”

“Yes, they do look friendly,” Dean says, and somehow, this doesn’t make him jealous in the way that considering _Sam_ being friendly with Castiel does.

It’s probably less to do with Sam and more to do with Kevin being—who he is, though. The boy’s practically an enchantment all on his own; Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone angry with him before.

“What about you, then?” Sam asks, leaning a little closer to Dean and drawing his gaze.

“My judgment of Castiel?” Dean says. When Sam nods, Dean answers, “I agree with you, but I’m still hesitant. He’s only really had one test of loyalty.”

“Only one?” Sam repeats, eyes widening. “Have you forgotten how he helped us find the poison that ailed Father, how he created the tincture to keep him alive?”

“Yes, all right,” Dean says. “Still, I have my reservations.”

“What could possibly concern you about him?” Sam asks.

Dean silently curses his tongue. Why couldn’t he just agree with Sam and let the topic rest? He doesn’t need anyone scrutinizing his actions and reactions toward Castiel.

“He simply hasn’t been here long enough,” Dean lies, because he can’t tell Sam the truth—that he suspects he could be enchanted. Or worse, that his time in captivity may have turned him into a bloodthirsty beast who lusts for men. Specifically, Castiel.

Sam only nods, a slightly disapproving look coming across his face, and Dean still doesn’t quite understand where Sam’s high regard is coming from. Something here doesn’t add up. Sam has always been quite the skeptic, and it seems unlikely that he’d like Castiel so much without more reason.

“Ruby and I were thinking of going on a ride after dinner,” Sam says. “Would you care to join us?”

“No, thank you. I’ll let you enjoy your afternoon,” Dean says magnanimously, getting to his feet. He flashes a quick smile at his brother before striding out of the room.

* * *

At nighttime, Castiel lights the fireplace in Dean’s bedchambers before heading for the exit. He and Dean haven’t exchanged words since their short conversation this afternoon, and if Dean is still in a foul mood, Castiel does not want to see him. But before he has gone far, the door opens, and Dean steps into the chamber.

“Castiel,” he says levelly.

Castiel lowers his head and mumbles, “Sire,” as he resumes his path toward the door.

As he passes by the prince, a large hand wraps around his upper arm, and Castiel jolts, limbs going stiff, unable to help himself. He wants to run away, wants to fight, wants anything but Dean pulling him back, face unreadable.

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel only nods, not trusting his voice. “I didn’t mean to be so short with you today.”

Castiel isn’t proud of his immediate reaction, which is to just blink stupidly at Dean. But he shakes off the surprise quickly enough and says, “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “No. I don’t apologize to servants.”

“Then what was that?”

“I was—stating a fact,” Dean responds, eyes fixed to Castiel’s as though daring him to argue.

“Of course, sire,” Castiel says, and he _swears_ disappointment flickers in those gold-green eyes.

The hand around Castiel’s bicep falls away, and Dean steps to the side. “You’re dismissed,” Dean says, and Castiel nods before continuing on to the door.

At the doorway, though, he stops and says, “Sire?”

“Yes,” Dean says, half-turning to look at Castiel.

A smile tugging at the corners of his lips, Castiel says, “It’s all right; I forgive you,” and enjoys the surprise and indignation on Dean’s face for just a moment before slipping out of the room and hurrying down the hallway, just in case Dean decides to punish him for this small trespass.

It quickly becomes apparent that Dean is not following him, though, so Castiel goes downstairs to the courtyard, and then farther down.

Inside the cavern, Castiel waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark before calling out.

“Great Dragon!” he shouts, and when there is no immediate answer, he adds, “It’s me! I have a question for you!”

“There is no need to raise your voice,” a low voice says, echoing off the cave walls. Then there’s the telltale blast of warm wind, followed by the dragon’s appearance. “Castiel,” it says, obviously pleased. “I hadn’t expected you to visit so soon.”

“I have a question for you,” Castiel repeats.

“You may ask,” the dragon says.

“Is there a way to permanently remove memories?”

“Why would you wish to know that?”

“Answer me first,” Castiel insists. The dragon only watches him, patient, and Castiel sighs. “If it isn’t possible, then there is no reason for me to explain why I want to know. I know that I can suppress memories, but I don’t know whether I can erase them entirely.”

“Well,” the dragon finally says, “altering memories is already very powerful magic. Erasing them entirely is especially difficult and dangerous because memories weave their way into the subconscious. They can affect all sorts of decisions without the subject’s knowledge. Removing them can take away subconscious reasoning for certain decisions—it can lead subjects to question their sanity.”

“So it _is_ possible,” Castiel says, but upon hearing the possible effects, he certainly cannot do it to Dean.

“I have the knowledge, yes,” the dragon confirms. “Now, why do you want it?”

“Dean. It seems he is starting to remember what happened to him. And if he remembers how he escaped—how I helped him escape—he’ll know about my magic, and he’ll expose me,” Castiel says.

The dragon’s eyes widen, and he says, “You must remove his memories, then. I will give you the knowledge that you need.”

“But you just listed all sorts of dangers that would come with that decision,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to drive the prince insane.”

“If you are driven from this land, we will have far greater dangers to face.”

“You said it was my destiny to protect Dean,” Castiel says. “How can you expect me to do something that would put him in danger?”

“Insanity is not the only outcome of removing memories. Dean could come out of it unchanged.”

“But he could just as easily go insane.”

The dragon exhales sharply, hot air blasting against Castiel. “Child, this is important. Your destiny is to help bring magic back to the land of Winchester. You cannot do that if you are not here.”

“I also can’t do it with a prince who’s lost his mind,” Castiel says.

“You said it yourself. Dean will expose you if he remembers. You’ll have to leave.”

The thought of having to run away from Winchester is just as displeasing as it has always been, but remembering Dean’s blank stare from those ten nights in Delmonica is enough to keep Castiel from even considering memory removal. He doesn’t think he could bear to see Dean like that again. Dean may be an insufferable bastard, but better an insufferable bastard than nothing at all.

“I’ll take my chances,” Castiel says.

The dragon opens its mouth to argue, but Castiel turns around and marches out of the cavern, back up the stairs to the dungeons.

* * *

Two days later, Castiel’s mother recovers fully, and that night, Castiel stays in the castle. In the interim, he has waited each night to quiet Dean’s sleep before going to look after his mother, and Bobby has confirmed that Dean has not come to share any new nightmares with him.

But this night, Castiel wakes a second time to the sound of movement in his master’s chambers, long after the usual hour when Dean has his nightmares.

Worried, Castiel gets out of bed and goes next door to Dean’s chambers. Dean is on his stomach today, still mostly under the covers, moving restlessly. Have the nightmares become more persistent? Will the dreams surface no matter what Castiel does?

He approaches the prince’s bed, accustomed to quieting Dean’s sleep, but when he is still a few yards away, he hears, clear as ever, “Cas.”

Castiel freezes in his tracks, startled. “Sorry, sire,” he says instinctively. “I didn’t—”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean repeats, voice strained, and Castiel silences himself, waits to be berated.

But when no more words come, Castiel reassesses the situation. Is Dean still asleep?

It takes him a moment to realize that Dean’s movements are decidedly different from what he’s seen in the past. Dean is on his belly, rolling his hips downward in a thrusting motion, but it takes Dean groaning Castiel’s name again, something desperate in his tone, for it to finally dawn on Castiel what he is seeing—what his master must be dreaming.

Castiel’s cheeks abruptly turn hot, and he retreats from the room rapidly, heart racing.

Back in the safety of his bed, Castiel tells himself that he must forget about what he just witnessed. These sorts of dreams are none of his concern. It means nothing that Dean called out his name. Dean was only dreaming, after all. All manner of strange things can happen in dreams.

Despite all of his rationalizations, it takes Castiel a long time to find rest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for minor character death in this chapter.

Dean is beautiful.

It is an observation Castiel has made before. The man has large, expressive eyes, in shades of green that fracture into browns and golds in the sunlight. He has a hard jawline, smooth cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, and pink, pillowy lips. His face is infuriatingly symmetrical.

Dean of Winchester is beautiful. It is an objective fact—one would have to be blind not to see it.

But in the past days, Castiel has had trouble not cataloguing every minute detail about Dean’s face and body. Dressing and undressing Dean are part of his daily duties, and despite Castiel’s best efforts not to look, look he does. The prince’s strict training has served him well—he is well-muscled, thick, formidable, and more than once, Castiel catches himself wondering what it would be like to touch him.

The first time it happens, the wayward thought shocks him. But it only gets worse—Castiel’s imagination soon begins running wild with possibilities. What does Dean dream of when he moans Castiel’s name at night? Sure, Castiel has a general idea, but suddenly he wants _specifics_. He wants to know Dean’s mind, Dean’s desires, and the perhaps worst part of it all is that Castiel _can_ get that information. It would not be difficult to lay a hand on Dean during one of his dreams and see all that Dean sees.

But no—best not to risk it. The prince’s dreams are none of Castiel’s business, as long as they don’t involve chains and fire and torture.

Yet Castiel’s mind continues to stray. What does _Dean_ think of these dreams in the daylight? Castiel has done nothing to impede them, so Dean must recall at least parts of them in his waking hours. As far as Castiel can tell, Dean has not treated him any differently since the dreams started, though—

There have been times when Castiel thinks he catches the prince’s eyes lingering on him.

But then, it could very well be his imagination. After all, what could Dean possibly see in him beyond an oft-disrespectful manservant? Castiel knows that maintaining the façade is crucial for his own safety, but he wishes he could be more, wishes his true talents could come to light without sending him to the stake.

And maybe part of him just wishes that Dean could see him for who he truly is.

* * *

“I’ve made no headway discovering the traitor in our midst,” King John says. “The traitor has not made another move, so there has been no opportunity to capture him.”

“The perpetrator could have moved on already,” Dean suggests. “Remember—he could have slipped into the castle, administered the poison, and left without being discovered.”

“No,” John says. “The forces at the border knew to dissipate when I began to make my recovery. The traitor must have been here to pass that information out to the border.”

As the king finishes speaking, his eyes flick away from the long table and land on Castiel and Kevin, which is predictable. When Castiel and Kevin followed Sam and Dean into the council chamber for this meeting, John had protested, but Sam and Dean had vouched for them, argued that they should be allowed to stay.

_I trust them with my life_ , Dean had said, and Castiel had felt warmed by the words. Of course, a little voice in the back of his head had reminded him that Dean wouldn’t trust him if he knew about his magic.

“We can only remain vigilant at all times,” Sir Michael says. “If anything suspicious ever arises, we must bring it to everyone else’s attention.”

“I think it would be helpful to bring more people into this,” Sir Victor says. “Most of us here are knights, so we typically move within the same circles. It is less likely for us to encounter the traitor than it is for a servant, like Kevin or Castiel.”

“I do not consider any servants as worthy of trust as you, my knights,” John replies.

“Respectfully, sire, they don’t have to be trusted equally—just enough to take on this task,” Victor says.

“Victor, Father will not take this suggestion. He doesn’t even trust Kevin and Castiel,” Dean says, and surprisingly, there is some bite to his tone.

“It’s all right,” Bobby says diplomatically, before John can speak. “We have enough eyes. If there is to be a strike against the kingdom, it’ll target the king or one of the two princes. Kevin and Castiel will surely see anyone who means ill toward their masters.”

“That is reasonable,” John says, but his eyes still seem mistrustful when they turn toward Kevin, then Castiel. After a pause, he asks, “Have the others reported any news from the borders?”

“Nothing worth reporting,” Michael answers. “The increased patrols have found no irregular movements along any of our borders. Lucifer has suggested sending Raphael’s reinforcements back to him. I agree.”

John hums, deliberating, and says, “Dean, what is your opinion?”

“I agree with the knights,” Dean says. “Sir Michael disapproved of thinning out our forces in the west, to begin with. I only ordered it to reinforce our southern army because of the potential Purian threat. Now that the threat has dissipated, there is no reason for extra strength in the south.”

John nods his approval. “Send word to Lucifer, then, and tell him to return Raphael’s men to him.”

“I will,” Michael says.

Just as he finishes speaking, the doors to the council chamber burst open, and the knights shoot to their feet, spinning toward the entrance. Castiel tamps down the instinctual surge of magic, clamoring for him to defend himself, defend Dean.

Between the double doors is a guard, standing a bit limply. Castiel realizes what is going to happen just before it does—the guard is thrust forward, armor clanging loudly as he falls to the ground in an ungainly heap. Standing in his place is a knight, bearing no visible colors. The knights of Winchester draw their swords against the threat but do not leave their positions at the table, for John has not yet given the order.

The unknown knight sheathes his sword wordlessly, and John asks, “Who are you? Why have you slain this man?”

The unknown knight removes his gauntlet and throws it down on the ground, pointing at John with his gloved hand. The challenge is clear, and the room goes still.

John starts walking away from the head of the table, presumably to accept the challenge, but Dean grabs onto his arm, stops him, and moves as though to accept it himself. Before he has taken more than two steps, though, one of the younger knights toward the opposite end, closer to the intruder, leaps forward to take up the gauntlet. Castiel has never spoken to him before, but he has heard Dean barking his name on the training field—this knight is Sir Linus, from one of the villages in the east.

The unknown knight turns toward Linus for only a moment before nodding his head and stepping closer. He takes back his gauntlet and presses a slip of paper Linus’s hand before turning on his heel and marching back out of the council chamber.

“What does it say?” John asks as Linus unfolds the paper.

“Tomorrow morning,” Linus reads aloud, and then he pauses, crumples the paper within his fist. “To the death.”

* * *

“He shouldn’t have taken on the challenge,” Dean fumes, pacing back and forth in his bedchamber.

“Sire, if you were not planning to get into bed, you should not have undressed,” Castiel says, standing still at Dean’s bedside. He looks impatient—he has even drawn back Dean’s covers already.

“It was foolish. He’s not as skilled a fighter as any of the rest of us,” Dean continues, annoyed.

It should be Dean going up against the knight with no colors. He should be the one fighting in Father’s stead. He’d thought to seek out the knight with no colors himself, but Father wouldn’t allow it. It would be against the Knight’s Code, anyway. The challenge has been set and accepted, and Dean has no right to alter it. Only one of the two participants can choose to withdraw, and it would be dishonorable to run from a fight.

“You’re going to catch your death strutting about without a shirt on at this time of night,” Castiel says.

“I never knew you to be such a mother hen,” Dean says. “You ought to be more concerned. That knight killed eight other guards on his way into the castle, without giving any of them the time to sound an alarm. And tomorrow’s match is to the death. Sir Linus could very well die.”

“I _am_ concerned. But my job is to see to _your_ health, not his. Get in bed, or put your clothes back on.”

Dean bristles at his manservant’s tone. “Are you giving me an _order_ , Castiel?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, unrepentant.

Dean wants to be angry, knows that he _should_ be angry, but he feels a flicker of heat in his gut, a conditioned response to the defiance in Castiel’s eyes—Castiel’s impertinence has become a regular feature in his dreams, the ones that leave the inside of his smalls sticky and wet.

It is as infuriating as it is arousing. Dean is a _prince_. Disobedience should be intolerable, not arousing. It should be punished—but even that is quickly becoming part of the problem. Dean dreams of punishing Castiel, either with lashes or strikes or blades, and it makes him hot with want.

Castiel is ruining him, yet Dean cannot bring himself to send him away.

Castiel comes to Dean then, removing the tunic still draped over his arm and holding it up for Dean to put it back on.

“No,” Dean says, yanking the tunic out of Castiel’s hands and dropping it on the floor. “You aren’t the one who gives the orders here, Castiel. I’ve been too lenient with you, allowed you too many liberties.”

“What are you going to do about it then, sire?” Castiel asks, one eyebrow raised in challenge, and oh.

Oh, no.

This is far too similar to the beginning of Dean’s dreams, similar enough that he half-thinks he might be dreaming. It is tempting, so tempting, to drag Castiel in close, to demand his submission. And when he refuses, for Dean knows he will refuse, Dean will beat the fight out of him, until he knows that Dean’s word is law.

The challenge is fading from Castiel’s eyes, though, replaced with curiosity, overlaid with some worry, and Dean reins himself in, reminds himself that his actions in his dreams are not his. Dean is not a violent person by nature, and these urges—they are not his. Something is broken in him, and he may not be able to fix it, but at least he can confine it to his dreams.

“Dean?” Castiel says, tone more curious than concerned, and Dean thinks his pupils are dilated, thinks those sapphire blue eyes are darker now than before. Dean’s gaze flicks down to his lips.

Dean might kiss him.

There’s a knock on the door, though, and Dean comes to his senses. Castiel takes a large step backwards, and—Dean hadn’t even realized how close they were standing. Did he move closer, or did Castiel? He honestly doesn’t know.

“Dean, have you gone to bed yet?”

It’s Sam.

“I’m awake,” Dean answers.

The door opens, and Sam steps into the room. “I uh, wanted to speak with you about the meeting we had this afternoon.”

“If you’re thinking about finding that knight and asking him to withdraw—”

“No, it’s not about that,” Sam says. “It’s about the—the person who poisoned Father.”

“All right,” Dean says.

“Should I leave?” Castiel asks, eyes flitting between Sam and Dean.

“Yes,” Dean says as Sam says, “No.”

Dean eyes his brother, curious. If Sam has waited until nightfall, until long after bedtime, this must have been something he did not wish anyone else to overhear. Dean had assumed, then, that it would be for Dean’s ears only. Kevin’s absence was another clue.

“He can stay,” Sam says before Castiel can move to leave. “I need an impartial point of view. Castiel might be more impartial than you or I, Dean.”

Still, when Dean looks at Castiel, his manservant is waiting for his instruction. “If Sam wants you here, you can stay,” Dean tells him before turning to Sam and asking, “What is this about?”

Sam steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. “It’s about Ruby,” he says. “Father held me back after the others left this afternoon because he wanted to talk to me about her.”

“He suspects her?” Dean asks, surprised. Father would never suspect the daughter of a baron over a servant in the castle. Then again, he supposes Ruby is not exactly of noble birth, which means she is not protected from Father’s suspicions.

“I think so,” Sam says. “He didn’t say as much, but he asked how much I trusted her, since she has spent the most time with me since she became our guest.”

“How did you answer him?” Dean asks.

“I said that I do trust her. She fought fearlessly alongside us on our hunt. I think she has proven herself loyal,” Sam says. It seems that isn’t all, though, because Sam eventually adds, “It’s just—Father says he suspects I may be biased. He suspects that I cannot think clearly when it comes to Ruby, so my word alone cannot clear her name. I think he might come to you for an answer, soon.”

“You want me to say that I trust her too, then,” Dean concludes.

“Well—you do, don’t you?” Sam says, eyes imploring.

“I wouldn’t say I trust her as much as Kevin or Castiel,” Dean says truthfully.

“But she’s been here almost as long as Castiel has. There’s no reason for you to trust Castiel more so than Ruby,” Sam argues. “Besides, you said yourself that you still had reservations about him.”

Dean stares at his brother, betrayed. Castiel is standing _right there_ , obviously paying attention to the conversation, and though he remains stone-faced at Sam’s last statement, he tenses up minutely.

“I’ve seen Castiel’s actions up close. Maybe I have reservations, but they are—they aren’t about his loyalty to the kingdom,” Dean says, trying to fix it. “He cares deeply about the kingdom, and about Father. For this, I can trust him. I’ve seen none of that devotion or care from Ruby.”

Dean glances again at Castiel as he finishes speaking, but the servant isn’t looking at him, eyes fixed on the floor. His hands are clasped behind his back, possibly to avoid giving away his state of mind.

“You just haven’t spent as much time with her,” Sam says, bringing Dean’s attention back to Ruby.

“Or she simply does not have Winchester’s best interests at heart.”

Sam comes closer, anger igniting behind his eyes. “What, do you suspect her, too?”

“No. We’re talking about whether I trust her, and I’m saying that I don’t. Not to the same extent that I trust Kevin or Castiel,” Dean says.

“But if you tell Father that, he’ll—”

“He won’t execute on suspicion alone,” Dean interrupts. “You know that. He has had his suspicions about a number of servants in the castle, but none of them have been sentenced to death. Father isn’t a monster who’ll kill people on a whim.”

“He might send her away,” Sam says, pained.

“With all due respect, I do not think I need to be here for the remainder of this conversation,” Castiel says stiffly. “My opinion would not sway the king one way or the other. Therefore, it does not matter.”

“Stay,” Dean says, but Castiel is already moving toward the door, and he does not stop.

“Just let him go,” Sam says before Dean can repeat the command, and then Castiel slips out of the bedchamber.

“You said too much,” Dean says, angry.

“You shouldn’t have admitted your reservations to me, then,” Sam says recklessly. “You never said that the information was given in confidence.”

“I would’ve thought that was implied,” Dean says.

“What does it matter to you, anyway? This’ll only make Castiel more determined to win your trust,” Sam says. “Maybe his efforts will help you overcome your reservations.”

Dean clenches his jaw and turns away, moves toward the window.

“When did you start caring so much about a servant’s thoughts?” Sam asks, and the question is dangerous, strikes too close.

Sam can’t know. He _can’t know_.

“I’ve always cared,” Dean says, putting on a defensive air.

“Liar,” Sam says. “What makes Castiel so special, that you would care what he thinks of your opinion of him? You never cared what Garth thought.”

“Garth knew I trusted him,” Dean says. “There was no doubt.”

“So you fear Castiel’s doubt,” Sam says.

“We’re done talking about this,” Dean says. “Your concerns are about Ruby, not Castiel. I will not lie to Father, and it was wrong of you to ask me to do it.”

“I don’t want Ruby to leave,” Sam says.

“The most I can promise is that I will try to convince Father not to send her away. I won’t lie, and I won’t vouch for her unconditionally.”

“Fine,” Sam says. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Dean repeats back, and watches as Sam stalks out of the room.

Dean stays where he is for only a moment before walking toward the door, not entirely certain where he is headed until he is stopped outside the door to Castiel’s bedroom, adjacent to Dean’s. He nearly shoves it open without notice, but some instinct tells him to knock first, so knock he does.

No response.

“Castiel, it’s me,” he says.

Still no response. Is Castiel not inside? Perhaps he went somewhere else. Where else would he go?

But then the door swings inward just a little, and Castiel’s face appears in the crack. “What are you doing here?”

Dean realizes belatedly that he is still shirtless. It is hardly appropriate for him to be out in the hallway, half-naked as he is, so he pushes the door inward, forcing Castiel to back up with a grunt. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, taking stock.

Castiel’s chamber is far smaller than Dean’s—more a closet than a proper room—and it is darker, too. Colder. There is no fireplace here; what light there is comes from a flickering candle on a night table, and from the blue moonlight filtering in through the small window.

Castiel stands before him, hardly a foot of space between them because the bed takes up half the space in this poor excuse for a bedchamber, and Dean finds himself questioning the wisdom of barging into Castiel’s quarters like this.

But it’s also perfect. Here, Castiel is trapped—Dean is standing between him and his only chance of escape. He certainly cannot leave this space unless Dean allows it.

Castiel takes one step back, but he stops there, and Dean looks down, sees that his calves have hit the foot of the bed. Apparently aware that he is trapped here, Castiel says, “What do you want?”

There isn’t even a hint of deference in his tone, and he keeps his eyes down, avoiding Dean’s gaze—he is angry with Dean.

“Sam didn’t know what he was talking about,” Dean finally says.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Castiel says.

“I’m not lying, Cas, and I wasn’t lying back there. I do trust you.”

“But you have reservations,” Castiel says, still staring at the ground. “It’s fine. I realize that I have not been in the royal household for long. I haven’t earned it yet.”

“Would you just—” Dean starts, frustrated, but he stops himself, starts over calmly. “I don’t doubt your loyalty to Winchester.”

“You doubt my loyalty to you, then. Is that it?”

Castiel still hasn’t looked at Dean once since he stepped into the room, and it needles at Dean, infuriates him. Before he can stop it, his hand flies up, grasping Castiel’s chin and tilting his face up. Castiel’s mouth is open with surprise when his face is finally turned up toward Dean’s, and Dean takes a large step forward, just shy of contact. Castiel shudders in his grasp, entire form tensing up, and Dean remembers the times that Castiel has flinched at his touch, shied away.

Why is he so afraid? Does he somehow know the pain that Dean inflicts on him in his nightmares?

“Dean.”

The voice is straight out of his dreams, and that’s it. That’s Dean’s breaking point.

He leans down, unable and unwilling to stop himself, and takes Castiel’s mouth, hand coming up to cradle the back of Castiel’s head, to hold him close.

There’s something electric about finally giving in, something that makes his blood sing, and when Castiel loosens up, starts to move his lips and tongue in concert with Dean’s, Dean groans low in his throat.

Castiel’s hands land on Dean’s upper arms, scrabbling a little as though they’d expected to grab onto the material of his tunic, and Dean registers a moment too late that it’s a clutch for balance, that Dean is pressing too far forward, and—

They topple onto the bed, and the fall breaks their kiss. For Dean, it’s like being plunged into ice water.

“Fuck,” he swears.

Castiel lies still beneath him, eyes wide and dark, and with the way Dean is lying atop him, he must know exactly how aroused Dean is.

Dean scrambles back, gets off the bed, and bangs into the closed door in his haste to put more space between himself and his manservant. Right. They’re in a bed- _closet_ , not a bedchamber.

“That didn’t happen,” Dean says, willing his voice to stay steady.

Castiel, who has propped himself up on his elbows to look at Dean, only nods slowly.

Horrified at himself, mortified by his actions, Dean escapes the room without another word.

* * *

Castiel hardly dares to draw breath until Dean leaves the room. As soon as the door bangs shut, though, he begins breathing rapidly, out of his control. He very nearly starts wheezing, curling onto his side and clutching at his chest, seized with terror.

Is he _dying?_

But at length, he catches his breath. At length, his lungs fill with air at a more sedate rate, manageable, and he can think again.

He’d almost lashed out when Dean kissed— _kissed?!_ —him. He can still hardly believe that the Prince of Winchester kissed a man. It was difficult enough to grasp that Dean dreamt about him. It is another matter to have incontrovertible evidence that the prince is so far gone that he’ll actually act upon these impulses.

But Castiel—Castiel had nearly flung Dean backwards, repelled him by magic. It had taken every ounce of willpower for him to hold back, to repress that instinct. He’d already been on edge, the combination of the dimly lit room and Dean’s proximity too reminiscent of that cell in Delmonica. The surprise of the kiss had nearly been too much.

Yet after Castiel’s first reaction passed, he found himself caught up in the sensation, and, unthinking, he’d started to kiss back, to mimic the motion of Dean’s lips and tongue with his own. It was a heady feeling, one that Castiel had never expected to feel.

He licks his lips, and it is as though he can still taste Dean, illogical as it may be.

Castiel almost wants another. But that is impossible—it’s unacceptable. The Prince of Winchester is sure to be wed one day, and having dalliances with men would sully his reputation. Dean even said himself that what happened this night did not happen.

Castiel holds back a sigh and slips under the covers. He already has plenty of secrets to keep in his day-to-day life. Why not take on another one?

* * *

The next morning, just after breakfast, many inhabitants of the City gather at the arena to witness the match—it appears word has gotten out about the knight with no colors.

Sir Linus approaches the royal seating area and bows before Father, and Father nods his approval. Linus then turns his attention to Dean, who gets to his feet and walks to the edge of the platform, leaning down so that they might have a private word.

“Fight well, my friend,” Dean says, only just biting back the words threatening to spill from his lips. To ask Linus to back down would be disgraceful, both for Linus and for Dean.

Linus smiles bracingly. “I will, sire,” he says.

Dean extends a gloved hand, and Linus grasps it tightly, gratitude in his eyes. Dean only hopes that the young knight will survive this fight.

The knight with no colors enters the arena then, wordless as before, and without any fanfare.

Father steps forward to announce the terms—that this is to be a battle to the death. He bids the best of luck to both knights before resuming his seat.

“Begin!” he calls out, and the match commences.

Sir Linus immediately goes on the offensive, one strong strike after another, but the knight with no colors is quick, catches each blow on his shield without ever dropping to a knee to brace himself. He must have great strength, especially for a warrior of his build—even with all that armor, he moves like a man of relatively small stature, possibly with Castiel’s build. Slim.

Not Castiel. Dean refuses to let his mind stray toward that man, not after last night.

The knight with no colors doesn’t strike back for a long while, only stepping when he needs to, parrying blow after blow but never returning any of his own. Though Linus continues to fight valiantly, Dean knows his strength, has trained him every day since he expressed his desire to become a knight. He can see the weariness that seeps gradually into the knight’s arms, can see that they’re becoming heavier.

Yet the knight with no colors never falters, continuing to move with all the ease and grace of a warrior who has just stepped into battle. Along with impressive strength, he must have excellent stamina.

With a heavy heart, Dean concludes that Linus will not live to see the moon rise tonight.

Sure enough, as Linus grows tired, the knight with no colors finally begins to advance. Linus catches the first blow with his blade and the second with his shield, but the third blow that lands on his shield brings him to his knees, and a kick to his shield sends him sprawling on his back, sword flung several yards away from his outstretched hand.

The knight with no colors advances deliberately, as though savoring this victory, and thrusts the sword through his chest, swift and powerful. Linus goes still.

There had been cheering in the arena all through the fight, but now it is silent, the crowd dismayed by the outcome. The knight with no colors draws his sword from Linus’s chest and steps toward the platform, stopping directly in front of Father.

There goes his gauntlet, landing on the dusty floor, and the arena goes silent, waiting for Father’s response.

Dean doesn’t give Father the chance, though, hopping over the railing and into the arena. He takes up the fallen gauntlet and looks at the knight with no colors, radiating defiance as best he can.

“I accept your challenge,” he says, and receives cheers from his people.

The knight only nods once, still refusing to speak, and Dean wonders whether he is mute. There must be a reason why he hasn’t uttered a single word since he arrived in Winchester. The knight with no colors takes back his gauntlet and presses a slip of paper into Dean’s hand, much as he did with Linus, and then he stalks off the field.

* * *

“That was foolish,” King John says as soon as they enter the castle.

They’re walking quickly, and Castiel hurries to keep up, two steps behind Dean. Sam and Kevin walk alongside them, but none of the knights are present—John dismissed them when they left the arena.

No other words are spoken until they reach a room near John’s bedchamber, one that Castiel has never entered before. Once inside, it becomes apparent that this is a study, smaller and better suited for private audiences. There is a large desk, and John steps behind it, putting distance between himself and the four others in the room. Castiel lingers at the door, beside Kevin, and waits.

“Dean, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I should have been the one in the arena this morning in the first place,” Dean says. “Then Linus would still be alive.”

“But then you might be dead!” John thunders, eyes ablaze with fury. “The knight’s challenge was clearly intended for me. You should not have stepped in.”

“And let you risk your life instead? You’re the king.”

“Yes, but you’re the future king,” John says. “If you die—”

“Then there’s still Sam, isn’t there?” Dean says.

“Better an heir by blood than an heir by adoption, though,” Sam points out.

“Are you taking Father’s side, then?” Dean asks, turning on his brother.

“No. I know why you had to do it,” Sam says.

John pounds a fist on his desk. “Dean, I don’t care about your reasons for doing it. We all saw the way the knight fought. He is skilled, and he is seasoned, and he is quick. I want you to withdraw from the match.”

“What—withdraw?!” Dean says, voice raised. “You’re the one who taught me about honor—about the nobility of knights and the sanctity of a challenge. And now you would have me withdraw.”

“Yes, because you’re my son.”

“The other knights are also sons of fathers,” Dean says. “I am no different from them.”

“Yes, you are! You are the future king of this land,” John says. “I cannot have you risk your life when I should be the one facing this knight. As your father, and as your king, I command you to withdraw from this match.”

It’s silent for just a moment, but Castiel already knows what Dean’s answer is going to be.

Sure enough, Dean says, “I refuse.”

“Dean!” John snaps.

But Dean has already turned, moving between Kevin and Castiel to yank open the door. “Castiel, with me,” he says sharply.

Castiel lingers perhaps a second longer than Dean, so he sees the rage in John’s eyes at Dean’s disobedience, but he can sense that there’s more there—fear, of course, and worry, but pride, too.

Dean moves swiftly down the hall, away from his father’s study, and Castiel has to jog to catch up.

As they pass through the castle, Castiel briefly entertains the notion of trying to talk some sense into Dean, trying to convince him to do as the king bids. But it would be for naught—Castiel may not have been a knight, but he was still a soldier. He is aware of what it means to take up the gauntlet, aware of how humiliating it would be to back down—especially for a prince like Dean.

“Do you really think that was wise, Dean?” Castiel finally asks as they near the armory.

“What do you think?” Dean responds, to Castiel’s surprise.

“I… don’t know.”

“You agree with Father, then,” Dean says, and there’s something disappointed in his tone.

“What you’ve chosen to do is brave. And if you win the match tomorrow, the threat will be eliminated,” Castiel says. “But if you lose, the knight would simply challenge the king again. Who would step in then? Another knight? Sam? Are we to lose all the knights of Winchester to this lone foe?”

Castiel follows Dean into the armory and closes the door behind him. When he turns, he sees Dean watching him with an unreadable expression. He bites his tongue on the question that threatens to leap forth, waiting instead for Dean to speak.

At length, the prince asks, “Do you think I’ll lose?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I just—I was trying to articulate the king’s worry.”

“You think I’ll win, then.”

Castiel doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Some curiosity filters into Dean’s eyes, and he says, “You’re that sure.”

At that, Castiel allows himself a smile and says, “Aren’t you?”

“Well, of course,” Dean says, customary arrogance returning to the surface. “I’m just surprised that _you’re_ that sure.”

His tone is flippant, but Castiel thinks there’s some gratitude underlying Dean’s words. So rather than respond to the words themselves, Castiel finds himself responding to Dean’s sincerity. “I have faith in you, sire,” he says.

Dean stops short and stares at Castiel, clearly caught off guard. But he recovers quickly and says, nonchalant, “As you very well should. Now, grab a shield. It’s time for target practice.”

“Sire,” Castiel says with a nod, selecting one of the lighter shields from the wall.

Dean lifts a sword and heads out to the practice field, purposeful. Castiel follows several paces behind, strapping the shield to his arm.

He wasn’t lying when he said that he had faith in Dean—he has seen Dean fight, knows how skilled he is with a sword. Still, in a straight fight, Castiel honestly does not know whether Dean could best the unknown knight. His confidence comes from the fact that it may very well _not_ be a straight fight. Castiel certainly is not above using his magic to cheat, if it is necessary to save Dean’s life.

Whether it is by sword or by magic, Dean _will_ win the match tomorrow.

* * *

Castiel is exhausted by the time Dean excuses him from the training field to fetch dinner. He gets dirty looks from the cooks for the state he’s in—smelly and sweaty—but he can’t bring himself to care, gathering Dean’s food and taking it up to his chamber. He is immensely relieved when Dean dismisses him, granting him a few hours to himself.

But when he steps out of Dean’s bedchamber, Kevin is in the hallway, a worried look on his face.

“Dean will not be dissuaded, if that’s why you’re here,” Castiel says.

“I know that,” Kevin says, starting down the hall and gesturing for Castiel to follow. “I was just thinking—if we can’t get Dean to withdraw, maybe we could convince his challenger.”

“The unknown knight who slaughtered eight guards and now a knight just to get to this challenge?” Castiel says, eyebrows raised skeptically.

Kevin sighs. “I realize it sounds impossible, but we have to try, don’t we?”

“We don’t even know where to find him.”

“He must be staying _somewhere_ nearby. There are inns in the City that we can search. Surely they’ll know if the knight is staying under their roof,” Kevin reasons.

“Even if we found him, do you really think we could convince him to withdraw?” Castiel asks.

“Well—he must have a reason for challenging the king. Maybe we could reason with him.”

Naïve. “I envy you your optimism,” Castiel says. “I don’t think it can be done. If the knight has a reason for challenging the king that is compelling enough for him to kill nine men in cold blood, I doubt a conversation with the two of us would convince him to change his course.”

“So are we to do nothing?” Kevin frets. “Dean could die tomorrow. How are you so unconcerned?”

“Dean will win tomorrow,” Castiel says simply.

Kevin stops walking, turning toward Castiel with wide eyes. “And you say _I’m_ optimistic. Did you not see Sir Linus’s fall this morning?”

“I have weighed the unknown knight’s skill against Dean’s, and I believe the outcome will be in Dean’s favor,” Castiel says. “We need do nothing.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I have faith in Dean?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“Not just faith. _Blind_ faith,” Kevin says, shaking his head. “You really won’t help me?”

“No,” Castiel decides. “I think you should save your effort. Nothing we do will stop this match from happening.”

“I’m not giving up just because you are,” Kevin says, frustrated, and then he hurries off down the hall.

Castiel watches his retreating back, feeling apologetic, but he wasn’t lying—he doesn’t believe that speaking to the unknown knight will help, and he is confident that Dean will win tomorrow. Even if Castiel doesn’t use his magic to help Dean, he doesn’t doubt that Sam would, if it came to that.

Actually—that could prove to be very, very bad. Sam doesn’t seem to be as well-practiced as Castiel is in using his magic, controlling it. He isn’t as powerful, either. If he tries to use his magic tomorrow, amidst hundreds of spectators, he could easily be discovered.

Worried, Castiel rushes off to catch up to Kevin.

He finds Kevin two stories down, moving toward the kitchens, and calls his name to get his attention. There is a flicker of hope in the servant’s eyes as he turns, but Castiel quickly shakes his head, to signal that he has not changed his mind.

“Look—I don’t think your approach will help, but I don’t mind buying you some time,” Castiel says. “Dean has given me the afternoon off. I can take your duties for Sam, to give you leave to search for the unknown knight.”

Kevin nods, smiling faintly. “Thank you, then. I’m to bring dinner to Sam and Ruby, and then there is a stack of books on Sam’s table that he wants returned to the library, in exchange for more books.” He rummages in a pocket and produces a piece of paper, pressing it into Castiel’s hand. “This is the list of titles he wants to have in the evening. If you give the list to Frank, he’ll help you find them.”

“All right,” Castiel says, scanning the list and tucking it in his own pocket. “Anything else?”

“That’s all,” Kevin replies.

“Go on, then,” Castiel says. “I’ll see to it that your tasks are carried out.”

“Again, thank you,” Kevin says, and bustles away.

Castiel hesitates a moment before turning toward the kitchen. He has an idea of how best to keep Sam away from the match tomorrow morning, but he needs to make sure that both he and Kevin are clear of suspicion. The next few hours will be crucial. Castiel must tread with care.

* * *

Castiel sits in the stands, a little to the right of the raised platform where the king sits. The high-backed seats to his left and right are both vacant, and Castiel taps Kevin’s arm.

“Where is Sam?” he asks, as though he doesn’t already know.

“He took ill late last night,” Kevin says. “Bobby gave him a tonic. He’ll sleep through the day, but when he wakes in the evening, he’ll be recovered.”

“And your foray into the City—was it fruitful?” Castiel asks in a lowered tone.

“No,” Kevin admits, bowing his head.

“I told you the knight would not be dissuaded.”

Kevin looks at Castiel, eyes afraid. “I could not find him,” he says. “No innkeeper had ever seen the knight, except on the arena yesterday morning.”

That is indeed troubling. “He must be staying beyond the borders of the City, then,” Castiel posits.

Dean steps into the arena then, clad in newly polished armor and a freshly laundered blood-red cape. His helm is tucked under his right arm, his shield already attached to his left. He looks every bit the victorious conqueror, and the crowd goes wild for its champion.

A quick glance to his left reveals to Castiel that the king is tense, knuckles white on his armrest. Castiel wonders what he would do if Dean actually died in this match.

A hush falls over the crowd then, and Castiel looks past Dean, sees the unknown knight enter the arena.

Switching his helm to his left hand, Dean unclasps his cape with his right and strides toward the stands—toward Castiel. He thrusts the cape over the barrier, and Castiel catches it, rolling it up absentmindedly. Dean’s gaze is on him, and Castiel smiles, hopefully encouragingly. Dean’s eyes linger a moment longer, something meaningful passing between them, wordless, incommunicable. Castiel forgets to breathe.

Then Dean takes two steps to his right, eyes shifting away, breaking the connection, and Castiel feels the loss acutely. He watches Dean bow to the king before turning his back and lifting the helm, fitting it over his head.

King John gets to his feet and steps forward, expression grave. “This is a single-round match, one-on-one, to the death.” He falters for a moment, the muscles in his jaw working tensely, and then he continues, “Best of luck to you both. Let the match begin!”

Dean drops into a half-crouch, facing the knight, who mirrors his stance. They circle each other, wary, the tension in the stadium palpable as everyone waits for the first blow to land.

The combatants choose the exact same moment to strike, blades meeting in a fierce clash, and they both leap back, each gauging the other’s strength. They exchange a few more calculating blows, and then Dean comes in with two hard blows to the knight’s shield, followed by a third that shoves the knight back, off-balance. Dean advances a step, unrelenting.

But the knight retaliates, catching the fourth swing and forcing Dean’s sword to go wide. The knight plants a foot firmly on Dean’s shield and propels him back a step, rallying his strength to strike. His swing lands on Dean’s shield, and then he spins, using his momentum to land a second, harder blow to Dean’s shield. Dean twists to the side, though, and the second swing only glances off the shield. The knight leaps away, avoiding the sharp point of Dean’s blade, and they part, circling each other once again.

At Castiel’s left, Kevin is leaning forward in his seat, gripping the barrier, radiating tension. Castiel is dimly aware of the shouting in the stadium, elated cries each time Dean strikes and disappointed groans each time the knight blocks, dodges, strikes back.

The fight goes on, neither combatant managing to deal an actual blow to the other, and it becomes clear that this match will be a test of endurance—the winner will be the man who retains more strength in the end.

Dean drives his sword forward forcefully, the point of it connecting with the unknown knight’s shield, but instead of the resounding clang that Castiel expects, he hears a zinging sound and watches in plain disbelief as Dean’s sword slides straight through the surface of the metal and buries itself at least a hand’s length inside. The crowd draws a collective gasp as the knight backs up, startled. The sword comes out of Dean’s grasp, embedded in his opponent’s shield.

Magic. It must have been magic. Castiel knows Dean’s strength, knows that what just happened was physically impossible.

The knight thrusts his shield aside, spinning his sword in hand, and Dean backs up, unarmed.

Does the knight have magic? Does he have a sorcerer sitting in the stands, as prepared to guarantee his victory as Castiel is Dean’s?

No. Castiel will not let that happen.

The knight strikes Dean’s undefended right side, but Dean spins to his left, grasping the knight’s sword arm and banging his shield against it, forcing him to drop his sword.

The two men grapple with each other for only a moment, but Dean is broader than his opponent, stronger, and he gets a hand against the unknown knight’s throat, shoves him to the floor. Dean presses the sharp edge of his shield to the knight’s throat, and the knight goes still, knowing that he has lost.

Amidst the crowd’s cheers, egging Dean on, demanding that he take the knight’s life, Dean pulls his shield away, regains his feet. The stands gradually go silent, confused by this turn of events.

Dean casts his shield aside and tugs his helm off his head, revealing mussed hair and a face flushed from exertion. Turning to address the spectators, he proclaims, “There has been enough bloodshed in the past two days. I will not add to it by slaying an unarmed man now.”

Bold. It is not permitted for a knight to go against the Code, to disobey the conditions set at the beginning of a match. It is _dishonorable_.

The crowd, it seems, does not know how to react to Dean’s words, waiting on John’s approval or disapproval so that they can echo it. John gets to his feet but does not speak immediately, and Castiel looks at his face, then Dean’s, finds John’s unreadable and Dean’s determined.

Before John can speak, before he can announce his judgment, Castiel starts clapping, loud and startling in the suffocating quiet. Kevin immediately joins in, and a beat later, as though a dam has broken, the people broadcast their approval in applause and cheers. A number of people even get to their feet, and Castiel enjoys the minute surprise he sees in Dean’s eyes, surprise and gratitude as his people express their love for him.

The knight gets to his feet then, and Dean turns toward him to say, “It’s over. Accept your defeat.”

The crowd falls silent again, waiting for the stranger’s response.

It is not a long wait. Presently, the knight lifts his helm over his head, and everyone—even Castiel—draws a startled breath as long, red hair cascades over his— _her?!_ —shoulders.

“You are an honorable man, Dean of Winchester,” she says.

“You’re a woman,” Dean says, intelligently. Castiel would have rolled his eyes if he were not so surprised himself.

“I am,” she says. “I thank you for sparing me, but I cannot accept defeat. I’ve come to Winchester to exact revenge, and I will not leave here alive unless it has been done.”

“What has my father done to wrong you?” Dean asks.

“He slew my parents and destroyed the village where I grew up,” the lady knight says, eyes turning to rest on John. “I will not rest until he has paid for his crimes.”

Dean steps past the knight and lifts her sword from the ground. She flinches back, but when he turns around, he offers her the hilt of the sword. She hesitates before reaching out to take it, but he retains his grip on the sword, guarded from the sharpness of the blade only by the leather of his gloves.

“If you mean to kill him, you’ll have to kill me first,” Dean says, and then he steps up to the sword, pressing the point against his breast before releasing the blade.

“Dean, no!” John barks, helpless from such a distance.

Magic crackles at Castiel’s fingertips, and he prepares himself. If the knight so much as moves to kill Dean, Castiel will not hesitate.

“You would die for this unreasoning mass-murderer,” the lady knight says. “He has burned villages to the ground in his quest to eliminate magic from this land. He has slain countless innocents. He—”

“He is my father,” Dean interrupts, blunt and true. “I will not stand by and watch as he is killed.”

“You are a brave man. Brave, and foolish,” the knight says, and Castiel tenses up, preparing for the moment that she starts to thrust the blade forward. She holds the point of the sword in place for a moment longer, but then she lowers it, shoving it into the ground. Everyone in the stands lets out a collective sigh of relief. “You will make a great king.”

“Seize her!” John demands, as soon as he is assured his son is no longer in mortal danger.

But before the guards have even come close, Dean turns toward them, holds up a hand. “No, Father,” he says, turning back toward John. “You cannot execute her. I won’t let you.”

“I’ll not have your stubbornness today, Dean,” John says.

“How do you think we got here today? You killed her family and destroyed her home,” Dean says. “She is here today for love, and for grief. This is not _her_ mess—it is yours. If you find her guilty and send her to the executioner’s block, you may as well declare your own guilt, too.”

John stands completely still, obviously taken aback by his son’s words, but at length, he waves his hand, signaling for the guards to retreat. Too stubborn to verbally admit that Dean is right, he leaves the stands without another word, heading back up toward the castle.

As the crowd begins to dissipate, Castiel gathers up Dean’s cape and hops over the barrier into the arena, to join his master. Kevin follows close behind him, and when they reach Dean, Castiel lifts the cape, asking silently whether Dean wants to put it back on. Dean waves him off, though, and says to the knight, “Would you dine with me today?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll not let you have me, if that’s what you hope to—”

“No, of course not,” Dean is quick to assure her. “I want to know where you’re from. I want to know your story.”

The request makes pride swell up in Castiel’s chest, almost more so than Dean’s decision to defy John’s orders, to call him out on his past mistakes. Dean can be callous, dismissive, and arrogant, but he cares deeply about his people, even one who has killed his friend and attempted to kill him. Castiel doesn’t think Dean has ever looked as glorious as he does now, still sweaty and slightly breathless from the fight but respectfully inviting his opponent to share a meal, to try to right one of his father’s wrongs.

He will make a great king, indeed.

The lady knight reconsiders the offer, eyes assessing Dean’s sincerity, and then she sticks out a gloved hand and says, “Charlie.”

Dean gives her a firm handshake and says, with the slightest hint of a playful smile, “Dean.”

“Yes, that I’d gathered,” Charlie says, and then she gestures toward the exit. “Lead the way, my liege.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out! I've been sitting on it for something like two months already, but I wanted to be more certain where this arc was going to take me before locking myself in. Thank you so much for your patience!

Charlie doesn’t stay in the City for long. Dean offers her a room in the castle, and she stays as a guest for two days, but on the third, she says that she cannot live under the same roof as her parents’ murderer for any longer.

When Dean asks her whether she’ll ever return, she answers, “Perhaps. Ask me again when you’re king.”

In the immediate aftermath of the match, though, Castiel was questioned extensively by Bobby about the magic that was used to disarm Dean. Since then, they have made no headway on discovering the culprit—they know only that the sorcerer must have been in the stands. It is hardly a clue at all, since any citizen or visitor of Winchester could have been in the stands that day.

The people have started calling it a miracle, talking in whispers about the strength of their prince. Dean, for his part, seems to think that it was a fluke—that the vigor of the fight gave him the strength to thrust a blade through solid metal. Charlie had accepted this explanation with a raised eyebrow, hinting at skepticism. Castiel feels confident that she wasn’t involved, but he cannot know for sure.

Ludicrous as it all is, at least no one has said the word “magic” yet. As soon as that word is uttered, John will carry out a witch hunt that’ll terrorize the City, and very likely the entire kingdom.

Despite the lingering threat of a potential witch hunt, given the way Charlie made her entrance into their lives, her visit is resolved surprisingly amicably.

The most troubling thing about it all is that even now, three days after the match, Sam still has not recovered. He’d seemed healthy enough when he woke the night after the match, but come morning, he was just as ill as before, if not worse.

“I don’t _know_ what it is,” Bobby says for the hundredth time, standing in Sam’s chambers. Kevin hovers at Sam’s bedside, fingers fidgeting restlessly, and John paces the floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Castiel remains in his place, half a step behind Dean, near the foot of Sam’s bed.

“Then figure it out!” John snaps. “Is it poison? Disease? _Sorcery?_ ”

“I _don’t know_ ,” Bobby repeats.

John exhales sharply, tension radiating from him in waves. His eyes land on Castiel and narrow dangerously. “What is _he_ doing in here?”

“I already told you, sire, that the boy had nothing to do with Sam’s illness. Sam was already recovering from whatever illness he contracted from the food when he took ill a second time. Besides, if anyone were to be blamed for the quality of the food, it should be the cooks and not Castiel,” Bobby says without hesitation.

John glowers at Bobby and mutters something unintelligible under his breath.

“It was that _woman_. I’m certain of it,” John fumes, turning toward Dean. “You should’ve let me execute her.”

“It wasn’t her,” Dean says, not for the first time. “She had a chance to run me through. If she were really going to kill one of your sons, wouldn’t it make more sense for her to kill your son of flesh and blood rather than your adopted one?”

John exhales noisily, arms folded across his chest, helplessly angry eyes fixed on his ailing son.

There’s a knock on the door then, and John says, “What is it?”

“Sirs Michael and Victor request an audience with you, sire.”

“Very well,” John says. He turns toward Bobby and says, “See to it that you do _everything_ in your power to revive him. Dean, come with me.”

“What—but Sam—”

“You’re of no use to him here. Come.”

Dean nods once and starts toward the door. “Cas, stay here,” he says before Castiel can even move to follow.

“Sire,” Castiel acquiesces with a nod, and then father and son exit the chamber.

“Is it magic, Bobby?” Kevin asks after John has gone.

Bobby frowns. “Kevin, I told the king everything that I know. And I do _not_ know the source of Sam’s illness,” he says.

“Maybe you don’t know, but surely you have a guess. Could this be magic?” Kevin persists.

“It could be almost anything. Guessing will not help Sam,” Bobby says. He pauses for just a moment, and then he says, “Kevin, why don’t you go down to my quarters to check if anyone has left word? I’d like to know if I am needed elsewhere.”

“What—even if you’re needed elsewhere, you’re needed _here_. You can’t leave Sam,” Kevin says.

“I am not required at Sam’s bedside,” Bobby says. “He has been stable for days. I can continue to consider his symptoms without being here. If someone else needs immediate care, it is my duty to see to it that they receive that care.”

“But Bobby—”

“Go, Kevin,” Bobby says.

Kevin lingers a moment, glaring at the physician, but he soon turns around and marches from the room.

As soon as the door shuts, Bobby says, “Castiel, I have exhausted my knowledge of natural illnesses, and this does not appear to be one of them. I need you to confirm for me.”

“I don’t know anything about illnesses,” Castiel says.

“You were able to tell me that King John suffered from a poison,” Bobby reminds him. “I need to know whether Sam is suffering from poison as well.”

It occurs to Castiel that this is the first time he and Bobby have been left alone with Sam. In the first few days, Dean had been preoccupied with Charlie, which meant Castiel had been preoccupied with her as well. They hadn’t thought of Sam’s illness as anything more than a cold, after all, and Bobby had reassured them that he would be all right.

Now, though, it seems Sam may not be all right.

Castiel steps closer to the bed, wary. He was able to discern that John had been poisoned, but it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and he does not want to feel that sort of disease again.

But this is _Sam_.

At the side of the bed, Castiel leans down a little and reaches out cautiously. His palm rests on Sam’s forehead, and—this is _pain_ , excruciating and inescapable, roiling within his mind. Castiel shudders with it, bites back a scream.

“Castiel,” Bobby says urgently. “Castiel, what is it?”

Dimly, some part of Sam rises up above the chaos, reaches out for Castiel, grasps him and drags him closer, deeper.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts.

_Ruby?_ Sam asks, desperate, flaming, bleeding. _Is that you, Ruby? Help me. Help me._

_Castiel_ , Bobby says, but the word is dim, coming from too far away.

_I’m sorry_ , Castiel projects as hard as he can, but Sam can’t seem to hear him.

_Oh, please, help me. Help me, Ruby, please—_

Castiel feels himself dragged backwards, slow, as though moving underwater, and then the pain is gone, and Castiel blinks, returns to the bedchamber.

“What’s the matter with him?” Bobby asks, grip tight on Castiel’s shoulder. “What did you see?”

“He’s in pain, Bobby,” Castiel says, sniffing a little. He reaches up, finds his own cheeks wet with tears. As he wipes them away, he says, “I don’t know what it is. It’s not natural. We have to help him.”

“I’ll certainly do my best,” Bobby says, turning back toward Sam.

There’s a knock on the door then, but before Bobby or Castiel can respond, Ruby enters. “Has there been any change? Any improvement?” she asks, anxious eyes finding the bed unerringly.

“Regretfully, there has not,” Bobby answers.

“Oh, Lord. What I would not do for him to recover,” she says.

“Ruby, I would like some privacy while I try to diagnose Sam’s illness,” Bobby says. “You understand.”

“Yes, of course,” Ruby says, but she does not move.

“Castiel, take her outside, please.”

Castiel nods, lifting a hand to give Ruby’s elbow a gentle pull. “Come,” he says.

Ruby allows herself to be led outside, but when the door has fallen closed, she grasps Castiel’s hand and pulls him down the hallway, motions hurried.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, but he receives no answer.

Curious, he puts up no struggle as Ruby leads him through the castle to her quarters. Once inside, Ruby shuts the door and slides the bolt into place.

“Castiel,” she says, “Sam told me that you—that you know everything. Please tell me if that’s true.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just answer me. Please.”

“I do not know whether I know _everything_ ,” Castiel says, “but I am aware that Sam has—talents.”

“Oh. Oh, good,” Ruby says. “Sam said that you were trustworthy—that you would protect him. That you would protect _us_.”

“What is this about?”

“I know what ails Sam,” Ruby says.

Castiel’s eyes go wide. “Then let’s go to Bobby at once. Once he knows Sam’s illness, he’ll be able to cure him.”

“No,” Ruby says, shaking her head. “It is a powerful poison. Any normal person would last no longer than a day with that poison in their veins, but Sam has persisted for two days since the poison was administered. Bobby would know that it has been too long—he would know that Sam could not be a normal person, if he survived to this day.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You and I are the only ones who know of Sam’s abilities. We cannot allow anyone else to discover them,” Ruby insists.

“So you would rather have Sam die?” Castiel says incredulously.

“If the king discovers his magic, Sam will die regardless,” Ruby says. Before Castiel can argue, she goes on, “Castiel, I know the cure. We do not need Bobby.”

“Then tell me.”

Ruby bites her lip. “Only if you promise not to tell Bobby.”

“Only Bobby?” Castiel says, raising one eyebrow.

“He is the only one who would know the strength of this poison,” Ruby says. “Please, I beg of you. Sam would not want anyone else to know of his magic, not unless it was on his own terms.”

“Bobby would have questions if Sam were to recover on his own,” Castiel says.

“Yes,” Ruby admits. “Yes, he would, but at least he would not _know_. Castiel, you _must_ help me.”

Castiel exhales. “Fine, I promise,” he says. “What is the poison, and how can it be cured?”

Ruby turns away from Castiel and moves to her bedside table, sliding open one of the drawers. She returns with a handkerchief and opens it carefully, revealing three leaves. “These are the leaves of the venenean plant,” she says. “It is deadly and powerful, able to kill average men in hours. Only those with magic can fight the effects for a prolonged length of time.”

“Where did you get them?” Castiel asks.

“I found them in the dregs of Sam’s tea, the night after the tournament,” Ruby says.

“You’ve known for so long? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I was afraid,” Ruby says. “I was afraid that you would not help me—that you would not promise. These past days have been _unendurable_.”

The pain on her face is palpable, and Castiel places a hand on her shoulder, eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry that you have suffered,” he says. “Now, tell me: how can I help you cure Sam?”

“The only cure to the poison of the venenean plant is to crush the root of the same plant into a fine powder and mix it with aconite and honey.”

“Aconite is a poison,” Castiel says.

“One poison remedies the other,” Ruby says, and it sounds like nonsense, yet it also makes all the sense in the world.

“Where would one go to find the venenean plant, then?” Castiel asks. “I assume it is hard to find, or you would have gone to find it yourself already.”

“It is a rare plant,” Ruby confirms. “It grows in dark caves, in warmer weather, south of here.”

“Puria,” Castiel ventures a guess.

“Yes,” Ruby says. “I would have gone myself, but it is foolishness for a girl to go alone.”

“But you’re not just a girl,” Castiel says. “You’re a sorceress.”

Ruby swallows nervously. “Yes,” she says, clearly unaccustomed to others knowing her secret. “Well, not quite. I have some magic, but hardly enough to be called a _sorceress_ ,” she corrects herself. “I know some parlor tricks. Not enough to defend myself, traveling alone through Purian territory.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “I’ll leave at once.”

Ruby looks at him in alarm. “You couldn’t _possibly_ expect to make it in and out of Puria on your own,” she says. “You’re just a serving boy.”

“I’ll be all right,” Castiel says.

“I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if you died because I sent you out there,” Ruby says.

“You’re not sending me anywhere,” Castiel says. “I’m going on my own.”

“But you can’t go alone. Let me come with you,” Ruby says.

“No,” Castiel says quickly. If Ruby comes along, Castiel will have to hide his magic. On his own, he could make it to Puria, find the plant, and return without ever being discovered. “You should stay here, with Sam. You know about this poison—you know more about this than I do. If Sam’s condition worsens, you will know what to do, not me.”

“Then—shouldn’t you take someone along? Are you friendly with any of the knights?” Ruby asks.

“I’ll be all right,” Castiel says. “I’m going to pack, and then I’ll be on my way. Don’t fret.”

He leaves the room before Ruby can protest, all of his focus on ending Sam’s misery.

The journey to Puria will take a day on horseback, and Castiel will need to spend time searching for the correct plant. He realizes belatedly that he does not know what the full venenean plant looks like, but—well, he knows the shape and shade of the leaves, and he knows that he needs to search within the caverns of Puria. That should be more than enough.

Three days, Castiel estimates. Sam need only hold off the disease for three more days, and then Castiel will return with the remedy.

* * *

Castiel steps out of his quarters fifteen minutes later, knapsack slung over his shoulder.

“Castiel!” Dean says, pausing before the door to his own bedchambers, and Castiel silently curses his luck. “I’ve been looking for you,” the prince continues, moving toward him.

“Sire,” Castiel acknowledges.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Dean asks suspiciously, eyes landing on Castiel’s bag.

“I am going to run an errand for my mother,” Castiel bluffs.

“Were you not going to ask my permission?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing.

“I—it is—time is of the essence,” Castiel says. “Forgive me.”

“Explain this errand, and maybe I’ll consider it,” Dean says, and Castiel really does not have the time or the inclination to spin up a lie that Dean will swallow.

“I cannot tell you,” he says, starting to turn away, but Dean’s hand wraps around his wrist.

“You will not leave the castle without my permission,” Dean snaps. “And you will not receive my permission unless you tell me where you’re going, why you’re going, and how long you’ll be gone.”

“You’re not my keeper,” Castiel protests.

“No, I’m not. I’m your _master_ ,” Dean says. “Now you _will_ obey me, or I’ll throw you in the dungeons, and you’ll never set foot outside the City again.”

Footsteps coming down the hall from behind Castiel make him look over his shoulder, and Dean follows his line of sight. Ruby is there, rushing toward them.

“Oh, good,” she says. “I hadn’t even thought to suggest asking Dean to go with you.”

Castiel blinks.

Oh, no.

No, no, _no_. Dean absolutely _cannot_ come with him.

But Dean’s eyes have turned sharp, calculating. “Castiel, you’re running no errand for your mother. Out with it, or I’ll have your head.”

Ruby sighs. “Prince, I told him that it was a fool’s errand, but he insisted on going alone. Bobby says that there’s a chance we could find a panacea in the caverns of Puria.”

“Panacea?” Dean repeats.

“It’s a cure for all ills,” Ruby explains.

“What—really? Then let’s go at once,” Dean says. “I’ll tell Father, we’ll gather the knights, and—”

“No, Dean, you can’t,” Ruby interrupts. “It is—the panacea is a magical plant. The king would never allow it to be brought past the borders of Winchester, let alone within the castle walls.”

Castiel watches the internal conflict play out on Dean’s face, watches him sway back and forth, between his conditioned mistrust of magic and his unconditional love for his adopted brother.

And then Dean’s eyes land on Castiel, and he says, “You—you were really going to go on your own.”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Dean, you can’t come with me. It’s treason.”

“ _You_ would commit treason to save my brother,” Dean says, disbelief and gratitude coloring his tone. “You brave fool. I’d never have guessed.”

“Dean, let me go,” Castiel says. “Sam’s time is limited.”

“I’m coming with you, of course,” Dean says. “Go—pack my things. I’ll ready the horses.”

Dean pushes past Castiel and Ruby and rushes down the hall before Castiel can protest, and Castiel turns toward Dean’s room, reluctant.

“Why did you have to involve him?” he asks Ruby as he enters Dean’s bedchamber and sets his own knapsack down.

“You would die in Puria if you went alone,” Ruby says, entering the room after him and closing the door.

“I can defend myself,” Castiel says, pulling open Dean’s wardrobe.

“With the two of you, you’ll have a better chance of returning to us alive. I am thinking only of Sam.”

“If we were to increase Sam’s chances of survival, we could have gone to Sir Michael,” Castiel says, gathering up some of Dean’s clothing to shove into a bag.

“Sir Michael is not Sam’s brother,” Ruby says. “He would not be persuaded to commit treason for him, not the way Dean was. I’m sorry about putting your master in danger, Castiel, but I do not think I could bear it if Sam died.”

Castiel exhales deeply. He cannot blame Ruby for her actions, for her ignorance of his magic. He is tempted now to reveal himself, but it is too late. Dean already knows Castiel’s destination, and if Castiel tried to leave without him, Dean would no doubt give chase. Castiel cannot allow Dean to enter Puria on his own—his only choice is to ride into Puria beside Dean, to protect him during their search for the venenean plant.

“I’m sorry,” Ruby repeats, more subdued.

“It’s all right,” Castiel says. “I understand.”

They share a grim smile, and Castiel returns to his packing.

* * *

The ride south is a quiet one.

Dean can’t guess at Castiel’s thoughts, can’t guess at why he would have sacrificed everything for the chance to save Sam. He’d like to think it’s for himself, but Castiel remains a mystery to him, and Dean cannot measure the depth of Castiel’s regard for him.

The thought that Castiel might actually be doing this for Sam, Sam alone and not Dean, makes Dean’s chest burn, makes his head pound with unjustified anger.

He stews like this for most of the ride, swaying back and forth between appreciation of Castiel’s loyalty and blinding jealousy of Sam. Would Castiel ride out like this if it were Dean lying supine, unresponsive to all of Bobby’s treatments?

They reach the border between Winchester and Puria at nightfall, and Dean demands that they bed down for the night. It’s dangerous enough to traverse Puria in the daylight; it’d be even worse at night. And they’d hardly be able to find what they’re looking for in the dark, anyway. Castiel doesn’t argue, laying out their bedrolls without complaint.

After a quick supper of bread and cheese, Castiel volunteers to take first watch.

Dean sits on his bedroll but doesn’t lie down, and Castiel watches him curiously. But Dean doesn’t think he can sleep right now, mind still plagued by his thoughts from the ride.

“Is everything all right?” Castiel asks eventually.

“I just want to know—why are you doing this?”

“Taking first watch?”

He’s being purposefully obtuse, and Dean can’t stand it. “Why were you going to come here alone?” Dean asks. “It’s treason to seek out magic.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Castiel says.

“Sam is my brother, and I love him,” Dean says. “Of course I’m here. But what is your reason?”

Castiel seems to turn the question over for a long time, and his hesitance only makes Dean angrier, confirms his suspicions of Castiel’s care for Sam.

“My reason is the same as yours,” Castiel finally says, and Dean thinks he might boil over.

“You love him?” Dean says, trying to convey light mockery in his tone, because the alternative—raging, all-encompassing envy—is unacceptable.

Castiel huffs, something surprised, almost incredulous, in the sound. “No,” he says, and Dean’s chest unclenches. “I’m here because Sam is your brother,” Castiel goes on. “And because he is a good man. He does not deserve to die. Not like this.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Dean agrees, already feeling more stable than before.

The world has righted itself. Castiel is his.

The thought makes Dean’s breath hitch. It’s preposterous, untrue, and almost downright _laughable_ to say that Castiel belongs to him. Castiel is simply in his employ, a good and devoted servant. But good god, Dean hasn’t quite been able to figure out what exactly he wanted from Castiel in the past, not until this very moment.

And what he wants is _everything_.

He wants to _own_ Castiel, irreversibly, irrevocably, eternally. He wants to brand his initials between Castiel’s shoulder blades, letters seared blistering red into skin pale from being covered by a tunic day in and day out. He wants to split Castiel open and cup his beating, bleeding heart in his hands. Wants to carve his name on the insides of Castiel’s ribs—no, on every possible inch of his stark white bones, so that no part of Castiel can deny his ownership.

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes snap to his servant’s, and he clenches his hands into fists, terrified of his urges, terrified that Castiel might somehow read his unacted desires from his face and flee. Losing Castiel is unthinkable.

“You should sleep,” Castiel suggests quietly. “We’ll need our strength tomorrow, to focus on the search.”

“Yes,” Dean says, and lies down to rest.

Gods above, he needs help.

* * *

In the morning, Castiel is shaken awake roughly, and he rubs at his eyes, sees that Dean has already cleaned up his own bedroll.

“Come. We need to find this panacea,” he says.

Castiel grumbles, still half-awake, but he forces himself out from underneath his blanket and goes about rolling up his own bedding. He stumbles away from their camp to relieve himself, and when he returns, he helps Dean brush away the evidence of their stay, kicking dirt over the remnants of the fire they’d lit in the night and scattering leaves over the places where they’d lain.

When their work is finished, they climb upon the horses and ride across the border into Puria.

“Now that I think about it,” Dean says as they move through the trees, slowly so as to make little noise, to remain inconspicuous, “we could have asked Lucifer to provide a small group of men, as support. They needn’t have known what we were looking for, or why we were looking for it.”

“It’s not too late to turn back now,” Castiel says, but he tries his best to sound reluctant.

“No,” Dean says. “It’d be better for us to search on our own. Having too many men would make us easier to notice. Eve doesn’t like trespassers, no matter our reasons.”

“Surely she would understand if we were trying to save Sam,” Castiel says, frowning.

“Yes, I’m sure, but we don’t have time to get caught and brought before her to make our case. Sam—his time is limited.”

Castiel nods. “You’re right, of course,” he says.

They travel for the whole morning without ever spotting a cavern. The ground becomes more uneven, and they often need to dismount and lead their horses on foot.

Castiel is just thinking of suggesting that they pause for some dinner when Dean holds up a hand, signaling that they should stop walking. Surprised, Castiel halts, scanning the forest up ahead to find what Dean has seen. It takes him a moment, but—there. It’s a group of five riders, far off in the distance but quickly approaching.

“We’ve already been spotted,” Dean mutters, tone unhappy.

“What do we do?”

“Just let me do the talking,” Dean answers. “With any luck, they’ll think we’re just travelers.”

Castiel looks at Dean’s black steed and shakes his head, because Dean’s optimism is entirely unfounded. There is no way he could pass for a commoner when he rides a horse of such good breeding. But Dean is standing in front of Castiel and therefore does not witness his skepticism.

The riders come closer but do not slow down, and Dean shifts on his feet.

“They’re not slowing down,” Castiel says to him.

“Yes, I noticed,” Dean says.

Castiel’s grip tightens on the reins. “Should we mount?”

“Maybe,” Dean answers, turning toward his own horse.

The first of the approaching riders draws his sword, and Castiel leaps onto his horse as Dean does, not bothering to wait for a command. Dean curses loudly and urges his horse to run to the right, and Castiel follows, careful to stay behind his master. If anyone throws a weapon, better for it to strike Castiel than Dean. And if it gets past Castiel, well—Dean doesn’t have eyes on the back of his head, so Castiel is free to stop it with magic.

Sure enough, a dagger flies right past his ear, and Castiel flings his left arm outward, deflecting the knife away from Dean.

Off the path, the trees grow quickly denser, and Castiel has to ride low to avoid getting swept off his horse. Ahead, Dean doesn’t slow his pace, but the branches become thicker, lower, and Castiel opens his mouth to shout a warning, but—

Damn Dean and his recklessness.

Castiel swerves sharply to his right to avoid trampling Dean and turns around swiftly to head off their pursuers, drawing his sword to meet the first rider. The second one gets past him, but Castiel hears him crash to the ground, which—at least Dean knows how to handle himself when he’s been unhorsed.

The other three riders form a semicircle around the fight, unable to pass the undergrowth through which Dean’s horse disappeared without being unhorsed themselves. As Castiel fends off the blows from the first rider, he releases the reins and grasps the dagger hanging at his hip, thrusting it unerringly.

One down, four to go.

There’s a slick sound and a grunt, and then Dean is running past Castiel’s horse, straight toward one of the surrounding riders. Castiel huffs in annoyance even as a dagger buries itself in his left shoulder. Why must Dean constantly make Castiel’s job more difficult by putting himself in more danger?

Castiel blocks the next few blows from the rider on his right and squeezes his horse’s flanks, forcing it to gallop away. Two riders give chase, but they’re far enough away that Castiel can stow his sword and extract the dagger from his arm. It hurts more coming out than it did going in, and Castiel mutters a quick spell to staunch the bleeding and numb the pain as he turns to face the two oncoming men, both brandishing swords, teeth bared in silent snarls.

Castiel looks past the charging horses at Dean, who is facing the sole rider that stayed to finish him off—the man Dean unhorsed lies on the ground, barely visible above the fallen branches that litter the forest floor. Reassured that Dean is holding his ground reasonably well, Castiel thrusts the dagger covered in his own blood at one of the enemy.

His aim is true—the dagger slices the man’s neck, and great gouts of blood spray over his horse and his companion.

But Castiel has to lean far back in the saddle to avoid getting cut in half by the other rider, and in trying to regain his balance, his knees tighten. Taking this as a sign to run, his horse takes off, and Castiel falls to the ground, landing mercifully on his behind rather than his back.

The other rider passes by him and has to wrestle his horse into turning around, affording Castiel enough time to get up. But Castiel is facing the opposite direction when he first regains his feet, and the first thing he sees is that the man Dean seemed to have incapacitated has risen from the undergrowth, perhaps injured but very much alive.

_No_.

“Dean, behind you!” Castiel shouts, but Dean has just run his current opponent through with a sword and doesn’t seem to hear.

There’s nothing else for it. Castiel is too far from the fight to reach them physically, and magic is weakened over long distances—there is no guarantee that a spell would stop a sword from sinking into Dean’s back, and Castiel cannot simply take a life by magic.

Castiel hefts his sword up over his shoulder, like a javelin, and thrusts it with all his might, using a spell to help it fly far enough to find its target. He watches, holding his breath, ready to adjust the sword’s path with magic if need be, and it seems as though time itself slows down.

Dean turns, a belated reaction to Castiel’s shout.

The injured knight who’d been sneaking up on Dean turns as well, and he starts to dodge, but he’s too slow—he won’t clear the sword’s trajectory.

At this realization, Castiel’s senses speed up again, and he watches as his sword buries itself in the man’s chest. But even as relief spreads all through his being, he becomes aware of hoof beats behind him, of a man’s cry. He doesn’t even have time to run before he feels the blow, the slash of a quick blade across his upper back as the final rider passes him by.

Searing pain forces him to his knees, and he can feel his strength going to the wound, trying to heal it, but the damage is great, and he has expended a lot of magic in this fight.

His shoulder, numbed before, begins to throb anew as Castiel’s magic leaves it to focus on the potentially fatal blow. It prickles, magic trying frantically to knit his rent flesh back together.

Blurrily, Castiel sees Dean combating the final rider, but he’s fairly confident Dean will survive this.

He can only hope that Dean leaves this place before more Purians come for him.

* * *

Dean can’t believe his eyes when he sees a sword fly straight through the man he thought he’d killed. It’s even harder to believe that Castiel actually managed to throw a sword far enough to kill this man. Dean sure doesn’t think he could throw a sword that far, in any case.

He’s still reeling a little from the shock when Castiel falls, and he doesn’t have time to really react before the final attacker reaches him. He ducks and rolls when the rider attempts to strike with his sword, and when the rider comes back around, Dean drops again, this time thrusting his sword out and slashing through the cinch strap.

The rider topples from his mount, and before he can regain his feet, Dean runs him through.

It is dishonorable to strike a man when he has fallen, but Dean cannot see Castiel, doesn’t know whether he was dealt a fatal blow, and honor can be damned for all he cares about it right now.

He runs toward where he last saw his manservant, and it takes longer than he’d expected to reach Castiel, lying prone, half-hidden between brambles and fallen branches. Castiel’s back is covered in blood, and Dean can already see that this is bad, _very_ bad.

Fuck, _no_.

Dean holds back the urge to whistle for Impala, because he isn’t sure whether there are other patrols out there—whether they’d come looking for this company of five. It’s a bit strange, too thin for a normal Purian patrol, but Dean really doesn’t have time to consider that right now.

He returns to the gap in the thick trees that Impala had run through, but she’s nowhere to be seen, and Dean exhales sharply, hurries back to Castiel’s side.

How is he going to move him?

Gingerly, Dean lifts Castiel’s torso a little, hooking his hands underneath Castiel’s arms, and he’s startled when Castiel shifts of his own will, head lifting.

“D- _Dean_. You should go,” he says, voice rough.

“I’m trying, but you’re going to have to come with me,” Dean says.

“Can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Dean urges, but when he tugs again at Castiel’s arms, more blood flows from his wounds.

“Don’t,” Castiel says thinly.

“Hey,” Dean says. “Hey, Cas, you’re not going to die here. I won’t let you.”

Castiel makes a distressed sound, and it makes Dean ache all over. He straightens and walks around, intending to try dragging Castiel along by his feet instead, but Castiel lifts his right hand, reaching up, and Dean grasps it, holds it still for Castiel to lever himself up.

God, his face is pale, lips thinned with pain. It looks uncannily familiar.

For a nerve-wracking moment, Dean waits for heat in his gut, waits for the horrible urges from his night terrors to set in, but all he feels is worry, bordering on panic. He could _lose_ _Castiel_.

“That’s a boy,” Dean says, carefully edging his shoulder underneath Castiel’s armpit to take some of his weight as they move toward the gap in the trees. He isn’t certain what’s on the other side, but whatever it is, they need to get away from here. It wouldn’t do to be found by a Purian patrol while surrounded by the dead bodies of another Purian patrol.

Dean speeds up their pace when he realizes that moving slow isn’t sparing Castiel any pain. The sooner they find a relatively safe place to stay, the sooner Castiel will be able to rest.

He tries to ignore the wetness on his shoulder, where Castiel’s blood is seeping through their clothing.

When they pass through the greenery, Dean spots a cave that looks only a short hike away, but Castiel is really in no condition to be hiking anywhere.

“Castiel, do you—do you think you can make it up there?” he asks, pointing up toward the cave.

Castiel seems to sag even more at the suggestion, but all he says is, “Oh, the things I do for you.”

Dean actually laughs, surprising himself, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Castiel huffs a little, a semblance of a laugh, but it’s interrupted by a sharp, pained gasp, and the amusement drains out of Dean as quickly as it had come. He hefts Castiel’s weight and resumes their trek up toward the cave.

They reach it without incident, slower than Dean would’ve liked. Castiel seems to be on the verge of unconsciousness when Dean settles him on the ground, flat on his belly.

“Stay with me, Cas,” he says, drawing his dagger and kneeling down to start cutting through Castiel’s tunic—it has been slashed open across the back and stained heavily with blood, so Dean hardly expects it would’ve been salvageable anyway.

There’s no response from Castiel, and Dean’s gut clenches with fear. He knows plants that can help to heal, but he has never had to tend to a patient alone, without any guidance from a physician or physician’s apprentice.

“Cas?”

Still no answer.

Dean quickly places his fingers beneath Castiel’s nose and is immensely relieved to feel breath against his fingertips. He’s still alive, for now.

Dean finishes cutting through the tunic and presses it to either side, baring Castiel’s back to him.

He immediately draws back, away from Castiel, and gets to his feet, trying to give himself some distance.

The wound looks serious, of course, though not as bad as Dean had expected, given the amount of blood all over Castiel’s clothing—and Dean’s now. This looks like something Cas could easily survive, as long as Dean cleans the wound and wraps it carefully.

No, what has Dean backing away in surprise is the ink covering the upper portion of Castiel’s back, a pair of wings that spans across his shoulder blades and extends outward to his upper arms, broken now by Castiel’s fresh wound and partially obscured by blood.

But Dean doesn’t even need to imagine what the wings would look like on unblemished skin. He knows the design by heart, even had some suggestions about changing it several years ago—suggestions that Michael had turned down because this was passed down. Tradition.

Dean blinks. Blinks again.

The image doesn’t change, and Dean isn’t mistaken.

Castiel bears the mark of Michael’s winged soldiers.

But—but _how?_

All of Michael’s soldiers are accounted for: they’ve been training, or sent out on regular patrols. If a man had gone missing, Michael would know about it, and he would’ve shared that knowledge with Dean. There was the garrison sent to Delmonica to rescue Dean, but even those soldiers were all accounted for—five survivors and a hundred and ninety-five dead.

Michael has seen Castiel, face to face. Surely he would have noticed one of his own winged soldiers standing in front of him. Is Castiel an impostor? But an impostor would attempt to slip into the ranks using a tattoo like that—why masquerade as the prince’s servant after faking a soldier’s ink?

Or—what if Castiel is spying on Dean, but on Michael’s behalf? Or Father’s? What if this is something Father ordered? It doesn’t sound so far-fetched, planting a servant to keep an eye on Dean at all times in case his time in captivity left him with some nasty aftereffects.

Yes, that is far more likely. After all, Castiel has more than proven his devotion to Dean today. An impostor that bore Dean ill will certainly wouldn’t have put his own life at such risk to save Dean’s life.

And if Castiel _is_ one of Michael’s winged soldiers, then his unbelievable sword-throwing skill is—well, not as unbelievable.

No matter the reason, though, if Castiel’s wounds are not cleaned, he could very well die, and he can’t answer Dean’s questions if he’s dead, so all that remains for Dean to do, at least for now, is keep Castiel alive. And when he wakes, well.

When he wakes, Dean will be ready for him.


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel wakes slowly, reluctantly. As he regains awareness, he feels more pain. His shoulder throbs. His back is on fire. His chest and hips and knees protest wherever they’re in contact with the hard surface beneath him, and he knows without looking or moving that he’ll have bruises. His cheek, thankfully, rests on something soft.

He coughs, throat dry, and hears motion behind him. Then—

“Cas, you awake?”

Dean appears in his field of vision, and Castiel attempts to lift his head, but Dean’s hand lands on it, heavy, and presses his cheek back down to the relatively soft padding beneath it.

“Don’t move,” Dean says. “The bleeding only just stopped. If you move, you’ll open your wounds again.”

“I’m—” Castiel coughs again, feels pain reverberate through him. “I’m thirsty.”

Dean moves away for a moment and reappears with a flask, holding it carefully to Castiel’s lips. Castiel takes a mouthful and swallows it with some effort, and Dean sets the flask aside. Then Dean lays out an assortment of plants, freshly uprooted.

At Castiel’s raised eyebrows, Dean says, “I did not know what the panacea looked like, so I brought some of whatever I could find in these caverns, while I was waiting for you to wake. They’re extensive.”

Castiel looks at the plants before him one at a time, wishing he could pick them up to examine them more closely. The leaves on the fifth one seem familiar, and at Castiel’s request, Dean picks it up and slowly turns it around so that Castiel can see the rest of it.

“This is the one,” Castiel concludes. “Do you remember where you found it?”

Dean nods. “How many of them do we need?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel confesses. “As much as there is, I suppose.”

“I’ll collect some more, then. Just—stay there and don’t move.”

“Where else would I go?” Castiel replies, but Dean is already walking away.

His footsteps fade quickly, and Castiel is left alone with his thoughts.

He murmurs a quick spell to dull the pain in his body, but he regrets it the moment the words leave his lips. The magic drains him even further, and suddenly keeping his eyes open is a struggle.

Castiel spends the time that Dean is away drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, far preferring the latter because it renders him free of his situation, free of this helplessness. But eventually Dean’s footfalls return, and Castiel uses their regular cadence to ground himself.

“I found more,” Dean says. There’s a whinny, followed by some clopping sounds, and then Dean says, “Impala was just hiding out. She found us before you woke, but I took her farther into the tunnels so she wouldn’t make any noise out here.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, mostly because speaking seems like so much effort.

Dean takes a knee before him and ducks down a little, meets his eyes. “You probably shouldn’t be on horseback, but… but we really should get a move on.”

“Leave me here,” Castiel says. “Sam needs the roots of that plant, or he might die.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

“You make it very difficult to protect you,” Castiel says.

Dean laughs, but there is something restrained in the sound, a sort of stiffness that isn’t there in his normal laugh. He is attempting to fake amusement even though he does not feel amused. But why?

“Come,” Dean says, moving closer.

Castiel’s back screams with agony when Dean starts to lift him, hands hooked under his shoulders, and he can’t hold back a whimper.

“Stop. Stop—put me down,” he says, strained, and Dean frowns down at him but complies.

“Do you think you can get up on your own?” Dean asks, skeptical.

“Just leave me,” Castiel says.

Dean’s lips thin. “I didn’t want to do this here.”

“Do what?”

“I saw your back, Cas.”

Castiel fails to see why that would matter. He’d gathered as much, as he’d woken without a shirt. His shirt must have been torn to strips, used to wrap his wounds. Even his shoulder has been wrapped up, though he’d stopped the bleeding before he fell from his horse.

“Of course you did,” Castiel says slowly, uncomprehending.

Dean raises his eyebrows, and—oh.

_Oh_.

“Yes,” Dean says.

Castiel licks his lips, remembering the day that he’d gotten his wings. Balthazar had been so proud.

“It—it isn’t—they aren’t—”

“They’re real,” Dean says, cutting him off before he can even try to lie. “I know the craftsmanship that goes into inking those wings, Castiel. So tell me: who are you, and why are you here?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Castiel says. “Sam is dying, remember?”

A muscle twitches in Dean’s jaw. “That’s why I didn’t want to do this here.”

“Then just—leave me. Forget about me.”

“Not a chance,” Dean says, and this time, when he goes to lift Castiel, he doesn’t stop.

The movement pulls at Castiel’s wound, and he can only grit his teeth against the pain, too wary of trying to use any sort of magic when Dean is _right here_ , actually touching him. Castiel gets his hands underneath him and pushes up, because if this is going to happen either way, he may as well try to get the ordeal over with as soon as possible.

“We can’t both ride,” Castiel bites out as they work together to get him upright.

“Sure we can,” Dean says.

“It’ll take longer to get back to the City.”

Dean places Castiel’s hands on the saddle and says, “Brace yourself.”

Castiel hardly has time to react before Dean’s hoisting him up. He pushes down on the saddle and swings his leg over the other side to sit down. His entire back smarts, and he holds onto the pommel as the horse shifts, uneasy.

“Shh, shh,” Dean murmurs to it, moving away from Castiel to rub the bridge of its nose.

The horse calms, and then Dean leads it out of the cavern, into the fading sunlight.

Castiel doesn’t understand. Dean must care far more about Sam than he does about Castiel. Even if he wishes to bring Castiel back to Winchester to punish him for his lies, Sam’s recovery surely takes precedent.

He chooses to hold his tongue though, for fear of drawing Dean’s attention—of reminding Dean that there are still questions to be answered.

It is sorely tempting to cast a spell now, to modify Dean’s memory so that he doesn’t recall ever seeing wings on Castiel’s back. But Castiel has wreaked enough havoc on Dean’s mind already with the spell he cast on him in Delmonica. And after the Great Dragon’s warnings, Castiel is especially wary about touching Dean’s memories, no matter the reason.

No, there is no way to remove himself from this situation. Arguing with Dean will only slow their progress toward Winchester, and Castiel does not think he could bear prolonging Sam’s pain any more than is absolutely necessary.

Castiel needs to think of answers to the questions Dean will no doubt have when they return to safety.

“Watch your head,” Dean says suddenly, dragging Castiel from his thoughts, and Castiel blinks, expands his alertness to his surroundings. They are passing beneath some low-hanging branches, and Castiel ducks his head, hissing at the pain in his back as he does so.

“Where are we?” Castiel asks, frowning. Now that he is paying attention to his surroundings, it occurs to him that he doesn’t recognize this place at all.

“We’re returning to Winchester from a different route,” Dean answers. “I don’t doubt a Purian patrol will have happened upon those bodies by now—they might even be searching for us.”

“They couldn’t know it was us, specifically, could they?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Dean replies.

They fall silent for some time, and Castiel finds himself swaying a little in the saddle. He mustn’t have recovered fully from the blood loss yet. If it were solely dizziness, Castiel thinks he wouldn’t mind, but every movement sends pain firing across his shoulder blades, makes him stiffen again.

This will be an exhausting ride.

As the thought crosses his mind, Dean brings them to a stop, and Castiel says, “Dean?”

But Dean immediately turns toward him, finger held to his lips. He looks behind them, and Castiel starts to twist, only to recall that he doesn’t have that kind of flexibility right now. Or rather—he _does_ , but just starting to turn is excruciating, and Castiel quickly decides against it.

Then Dean is moving toward the side of the horse, gesturing for Castiel to scoot forward.

“Do you really think—” Castiel starts, but then Dean is levering himself up behind him.

Dean’s arms fall to either side of him, and Castiel stifles a cry when Dean’s chest first comes into contact with his back, forcing it to bend at a slightly different angle than before. He doesn’t have time to complain, though, because Dean abruptly urges the horse into a gallop, and Castiel thinks he might bite a hole through his lip trying to keep quiet.

“Halt!” a voice calls from behind them.

“Ah, fuck,” Dean curses, voice low.

A throwing axe flies right past them and embeds itself in a tree several yards ahead, and the horse startles, rears up a little. Castiel scrambles for something to hold onto and finds himself grasping Dean’s forearms, grateful that Dean has a tight hold on the reins.

They turn to face the oncoming rider, and Castiel realizes that if this rider is determined to end Dean’s life, then Castiel will have to show his hand. There will be no going back, as soon as Dean has seen Castiel’s magic.

But the rider slows to a stop in front of them, eyes widening a fraction in recognition. He is dressed in similar attire to the men who’d pursued them before—the Purian patrol—but it is simpler, not as well-crafted. If the others were knights, this man would be akin to a common foot soldier.

“Dean,” the man says gruffly.

“That’s _Prince_ Dean to you, Benny,” Dean says from behind Castiel.

“Yes, of course,” Benny says. “Well, Prince, if this is your new damsel in distress, I will say your taste has improved since the last one.”

“Don’t test me,” Dean says. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know me. I take jobs where I can find them. What are _you_ doing here?”

“That is none of your business,” Dean says stiffly.

“What, was it unsafe for you to have a romantic interlude within the borders of Winchester? Were you forced to pursue your feelings in Purian territory?”

“I’ve not been exiled,” Dean says. “And this is not a romantic interlude.” The man says nothing, only raises an eyebrow. “What job did you take here?” Dean asks him.

“Oh, the usual. A violent one,” Benny replies, urging his mount to take a few steps forward. Dean backs them up a little—he must be wary—and Benny chuckles, just continues past them to tug his throwing axe out of the tree. As he tucks it into a sheath on his back, he says, “I’ve been tasked with finding a company of five, on horseback, impersonating a Purian patrol.”

Castiel immediately thinks back to the riders who’d attacked him and Dean.

“Impersonators, hmm?” Dean says.

“Yes. They were impeccably disguised—enough to fool a real Purian patrol, at least for a while. By the time the patrol determined that they were fakes, they had already made good their escape. We do not know their aim in coming here, but the fact that they came in disguise points toward nefarious purposes.”

“We may have taken care of that for the good Queen Eve,” Dean says, and Castiel wishes he could clap a hand over his master’s mouth. Surely it can’t be good for them to divulge that they killed five men in Purian garb, whether or not they were impersonators. After all, they hadn’t known it at the time.

“Is that why you’re both covered in blood?”

“Yes,” Dean says. “The men came upon us near noontime today and struck without warning or provocation. We defended ourselves.”

“And you could hardly be blamed for defending yourselves,” Benny says with a small smile. “Where did this take place? I’ll lead a patrol there to gather the bodies and bring them back to the capital. Eve wanted them alive, but—well, I’ll tell her they refused to be taken alive.”

“They’re back a ways,” Dean says. “If you follow our tracks, you’ll see that we came from a cavern that faces east. Directly across from that cavern is a thick wall of vegetation.”

“Yes; it’s an annoyance, but Eve refuses to let us cut it all down.”

“There is a hole in the wall, not far from the mouth of the cavern. You’ll find the bodies on the other side of the wall,” Dean says.

“Thanks, brother.”

Castiel expects Dean to respond with something dismissive, something that puts Benny down for presuming to be Dean’s _brother_ , but instead, Dean brings them closer, riding up beside Benny’s horse. Castiel tenses up at the proximity, and Dean’s right arm releases the reins to wrap around his waist, holding him still—did he think Castiel was going to fall?

Then Dean is reaching out with his left hand, and Benny smiles broadly, clasping Dean’s left forearm.

They haven’t released each other yet when Benny says, “Do you need my help?”

“Are you offering?” Dean asks.

“Are you asking?”

Dean goes quiet, and his left hand returns to take up the reins, his inner forearm brushing Castiel’s left side.

“Am I to take that as a no?” Benny asks.

“You do realize we’re riding straight for Winchester,” Dean says.

Benny shrugs, and Castiel gets the sense that the motion is supposed to convey nonchalance, but the tightness about his lips and eyes gives him away. “I could turn away before we reach it,” he says.

“And your job here?”

“Oh, come now, Dean, there’s no need to test me. You know where my loyalties lie.”

“Can you ride on your own?”

The question makes no sense, seeing as Benny is clearly riding on his own, but then Dean’s right arm tightens a little around Castiel, jolting him, and Castiel hisses at the sparks of pain that go off all across his back.

“Can you ride on your own?”

When Dean repeats the question, his voice is lower, closer, breath passing over the back of Castiel’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

“Is he mute?” Benny asks.

“No. He’s the mouthiest servant I’ve ever had,” Dean says, and Benny laughs, a warm, hearty sound.

“He hasn’t said a word since I laid eyes on him,” Benny remarks.

“I suppose he hasn’t,” Dean says. Shaking Castiel a little, he says, “Hey. I asked you a question.”

“Stop _moving_ ,” Castiel grits out, wishing he could use a spell to numb his pain. Using a spell in this moment, back pressed to Dean’s chest, would not be wise.

He expects Dean to snap at him for his insubordination, especially in front of someone who is apparently a friend—a _brother_ —to Dean, but Dean only removes his arm from around Castiel’s waist, reaching forward slightly to grasp the reins with both hands.

“He was struck across his back,” Dean says to Benny. “I don’t think he’d make it far on horseback, alone.”

“I wasn’t offering to lend you my _horse_ ,” Benny says, tone colored with incredulity. “If you want my help, you’ll get me _and_ my horse.”

“In that case, you’d better stay here,” Dean says.

“If that’s what you want,” Benny says. “You might want to travel farther to the east before turning north toward Winchester. Patrols are thick along the northwestern border.”

“The Delmonican border?”

Benny nods. “We’ve seen their men training near the border. Don’t know whether they intend to cross into Puria, but Eve has concentrated her patrols to pass by that border far more frequently than any of the others.”

“Thank you for the tip.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Benny says, and then he urges his horse forward, riding back the way they’d come.

Dean turns them eastward, but they soon run into the thick wall of undergrowth that they’d encountered farther south, so they turn toward the north, following the barrier that could very well run along the entire length of the kingdom; it had certainly sounded that way, from Benny’s words.

“Who was he?” Castiel asks eventually.

“Friend of mine,” Dean says.

“Must have been a good friend,” Castiel comments when Dean doesn’t elaborate. “He spoke to you more familiarly than even the knights.”

Dean snorts. “ _You_ speak to me more familiarly than the knights,” he says. “Clearly, that is no measure of friendship.”

“Clearly,” Castiel bites out, shaken by the horse’s movements underneath him. He has been trying to hold himself still, but it is difficult to keep the same posture on horseback.

“Are you in pain?” Dean asks, a beat late.

“That is a stupid question,” Castiel blurts out against his better judgment.

“You’re too stiff,” Dean says, pulling his right hand away from the reins and placing it on Castiel’s hip. “You need to relax.”

“It _hurts_ ,” Castiel gripes. He has no patience left for this conversation.

Then Dean’s hand is on his chest, pulling him back until he’s pressed flush against Dean. “Relax,” Dean says. “Let your body absorb Impala’s motions.”

Of course, Castiel goes stock-still, uncomfortable with this proximity. Stiff as a board, his back collides with Dean multiple times, and Dean tugs on the reins with his left hand, brings them to a stop.

“I’ve done this before,” Dean says, and his voice is softer this time, coaxing. “Relax. I’ll get us home in one piece.”

Castiel thinks he prefers Dean’s tone when he’s being arrogant and demanding.

They stay there for a long minute, and Castiel grows tired of holding himself taut. It occurs to him that Dean is waiting for him to relax, but he doesn’t _want_ to. Yet it quickly becomes apparent that he hasn’t the energy to stay rigid like this, not when all he wants is to rest.

At length, the muscles in his back and abdomen relax, and he finds himself leaning into Dean, reliably broad and sturdy behind him.

“That’s it,” Dean says, and when he clicks his tongue, they start moving forward again.

It still hurts, but allowing himself to move with Dean, with the horse, seems to reduce the amount of stretching and pulling on his back.

Dean’s head is already big enough, though, so Castiel doesn’t bother admitting that Dean was right about this. He shuts his eyes, grimacing whenever there is a particularly large jolt, and tries his best to meditate, take his thoughts away from his body.

* * *

Dean hardly knows what possesses him to pull Castiel back, to hold him so close, but try as he might, he can’t quite bring himself to regret it, not when it has brought him physically closer to Castiel than he’s ever been.

There had been something admirable in the stiff line of Cas’s back, his refusal to give in, to plead with Dean again to just leave him behind.

Dean wouldn’t have agreed, anyway. Castiel had probably figured that out already.

There is something delicate about him now, the tentative way that he leans into Dean, as though he doesn’t quite trust Dean to keep him upright. He tenses up now and then, no doubt for the shocks of pain he’s still getting, unavoidable, and Dean wishes he could somehow take it all away.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually he realizes that he’s still hanging onto the reins with only one hand—his right arm remains wrapped around Cas, though it has slipped down to waist level.

He wants to pull his arm away, but moving now would only draw attention to how long he’s already kept it there, wouldn’t it?

Oh, who is he trying to fool? He just doesn’t want to let go of Cas.

His fingers trace over a bumpy area on Cas’s waist, and he remembers seeing scars there—scars were scattered all over Cas’s torso. Even if Dean hadn’t seen the wings on Cas’s back, he would have known from these scars that Cas couldn’t be an average citizen of Winchester.

“How did you know Benny?” Cas asks abruptly, and it is a welcome distraction. Given the pain Castiel seems to be in, he may be searching for a distraction, too.

“You ask as though you have a right to know,” Dean replies reflexively.

“Rude,” Cas says. “I injure myself saving your life, and this is how you show your gratitude.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, though Castiel is not looking at him. “Do you think I’d be letting you ride with me if you hadn’t saved my life?”

“So you _don’t_ deny that you needed saving,” Castiel says. He sounds smug, but somehow Dean isn’t annoyed. “Yet you laughed when I said I was protecting you.”

Dean bites his lip, considers asking all of his questions now. He hadn’t wanted to do it here—he’d wanted to see to Sam first and puzzle out the mystery of Castiel later. But Sam is out of his reach, and Castiel is here, literally within his grasp. He may not have another opportunity like this.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean sees that his servant has turned his head a little to get a glimpse of him. His head rests on Dean’s shoulder, so Dean cannot quite escape his gaze.

“Tell me why you accepted the position in the castle,” Dean says.

“Accepted?” Castiel says, disbelieving. “When did I ever _accept_ the position?”

“You didn’t turn it down.”

Cas stares at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re Prince Dean of Winchester. You could’ve had my head for insubordination. Of course I didn’t turn it down.”

“If that were truly your reasoning, then you should have turned out to be a quiet and obedient servant. Yet you’ve proven to be unruly and disrespectful on multiple occasions,” Dean says. “You’ve never explained why. Were you testing me?”

“Testing you?” Cas says carefully, and now Dean feels certain.

“You’ve been tasked with my wellbeing, haven’t you?” he says. “Michael has been face-to-face with you many times, yet he never exposed you. I can only guess that he was the one who put you here, to keep an eye on me.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, and they move along in silence for a moment.

“You’re allowed to admit it,” Dean says. “I won’t punish either of you. It is—understandable that he would be concerned about me, after my return. And—well, if the order came from Father, then I’ve no right to punish either of you, anyway.”

“It wasn’t under the king’s orders,” Castiel says.

“So you really are one of Michael’s winged soldiers. You’re confessing to intentionally deceiving me.”

“Yes,” Cas says, voice heavy but without hesitation.

The confirmation puts a sour taste in Dean’s mouth. Castiel is a winged soldier. He has done battle, has fought bravely enough to earn that ink. Whatever happens upon their return to Winchester, he cannot remain Dean’s manservant; that is far beneath his deserved station.

“Dean,” Castiel says hesitantly, “if I am to be killed, could it be done privately? I don’t want my mother to see me beheaded.”

“What— _Cas_ ,” Dean says, taken aback. “You saved my life. I couldn’t possibly order your death. Besides, you didn’t decide on this. Michael did.”

Cas doesn’t answer, as though unwilling to accept his innocence if it means even a shred of guilt might land on the general, and Dean has to hand it to Michael: the man truly has unparalleled loyalty from his winged soldiers.

The silence becomes suffocating, though, and Dean fishes for something, anything, to know what’s on Castiel’s mind. “You know, Cas, I meant it when I said that I wouldn’t punish you or Michael,” he tries.

“I believe you,” Cas says quietly.

Dean wishes he could see into Cas’s head, read his mind, his thoughts. What does Cas think of Dean? Michael placed him here, so Dean’s safety was his duty. But—does any part of him feel devotion to Dean, outside of the orders Michael gave him?

Probably not, Dean realizes. It isn’t as though Dean has given him reason to be loyal.

God, Cas likely has no regard for Dean at all, as an individual. His respect and loyalty are both to the crown Dean wears, not to Dean himself.

The thought stings more than it should.

“Y’know, it all makes sense now,” Dean says aloud, trying to fill the silence.

“What makes sense?”

“You, killing those bandits on the hunt,” Dean says, remembering how rattled he’d felt—how shocked and worried—when he’d turned around and seen Castiel drenched in blood. “You, knowing how to put me into a suit of armor. I never once had to correct you.”

“I apologize for my deception,” Cas says.

“I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Cas says, “What _are_ you looking for?”

“Is this another test?”

“No,” Cas says.

Impala comes to an abrupt stop, and Dean tightens his hold on Cas, irrationally worried that he’ll be thrown from the saddle. Cas hisses, pained, and Dean just sits behind him, useless, helpless.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, only just managing to stop himself from kissing Cas’s temple.

He notes that the road ahead is rocky, uneven, and Impala was right to stop. He only wishes he didn’t have to get off here.

“I need to lead her on foot. Just stay where you are,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move, hates the thought of releasing Cas.

As soon as they return to Winchester, they’ll be parted.

Dean _hates_ this.

“You needn’t wait for my command,” Cas says, only slightly strained, and Dean laughs despite himself.

He gets off Impala, and the stiffness from before returns to Castiel’s form, shoulders level and back straight. God, he’s radiant. Beautiful.

He’s also a _man_.

Dean has let this go on for far too long. He forces himself to tear his eyes away, moving to take up the reins and lead Impala onward.

* * *

Night has fallen by the time they reach the border, but Castiel is relieved to be back in familiar territory, safe from the risk of being attacked by fake Purian soldiers or detained by real Purian soldiers. They bed down for a few hours’ rest, Dean doing all the work for once, and arise at first light to ride for the City.

Castiel expects Dean to procure a second horse, since there is a greater likelihood that people will know Dean’s face here, and being seen riding with a man… well. People would talk. But when Castiel brings it up, Dean just tightens his arm around Castiel’s waist and tells him not to be ridiculous.

“You can’t ride quickly enough on your own to keep up with me right now, anyway,” he’d added as an afterthought, and it had come out like an excuse.

Now, Castiel remembers Dean’s kiss, deep and possessive and overwhelming, like he’d wanted to steal the very breath from Castiel’s lungs.

In those days of torture, Castiel had never once imagined that Dean would have those sorts of inclinations toward him—it hadn’t seemed even remotely possible. So when and where did it start? _How?_

It’s probably around midmorning when they hear a whistle, hoof beats approaching from the east.

“I told you that you might be recognized,” Castiel grumbles, but Dean doesn’t even remove his hand from Castiel’s hip, only squeezes once, probably meant as a rebuke.

“Dean!” a familiar voice calls as Dean turns them toward the speaker, and oh, that’s Charlie, riding toward them.

“Charlie,” Dean greets as she reaches them.

“Castiel, are you all right?” she asks, eyes concerned.

Castiel wears Dean’s riding jacket—Dean had insisted when they got up in the morning—but he wears nothing underneath, save the makeshift bandage formed from strips of his shirt. They’d changed his wrappings in the morning, casting aside the old pieces of cloth because they were unsalvageable.

“I am,” Castiel says. He _is_ doing all right, all things considered. Having a night’s rest allowed him time to regain his strength. It’d be suspicious if he healed from his wound too quickly, but he has been using his magic to help numb the pain.

“Well,” Charlie says, smiling. “I never thought you’d afford a servant the sort of care usually reserved for damsels in distress.”

“He may not be a damsel, but he was in distress, so I took pity on him,” Dean says easily.

Charlie’s eyes pass over them, lingering at Castiel’s hip, and Dean’s hand on his hip suddenly feels heavier, incriminating somehow. Yet there’s a sort of casualness in its placement, in the way Dean’s thumb gently moves back and forth, sure of its welcome even though Castiel never gave any sort of indication.

“Are you both hurt?” Charlie asks, gaze lifting again.

“Just him,” Dean says.

Charlie hums. “Are you riding back to the capital? What took you away from it?”

“It was only an errand,” Dean says. “We actually should be on our way.”

“I’ll escort you, then,” Charlie offers with a bright smile. “Wouldn’t want you to run afoul of bandits in this vulnerable state.”

“Do as you like,” Dean says, turning them back to continue along the path.

“Thank you,” Castiel says when it becomes clear that Dean will not express his gratitude, and Charlie rides up next to them, grinning.

“Dean, you’d do well to learn some manners from Cas,” she says.

“ _I_ need to learn manners from _him?_ It is clearly the other way around,” Dean says.

Charlie scoffs. “Not from what I’ve seen. Isn’t that right, Cas?”

“Of course he’s going to agree with you,” Dean says before Castiel can speak. “He’s the most irreverent, disrespectful manservant I’ve ever had.”

“But it’s refreshing, isn’t it? Having someone who’ll talk to you like you’re a person,” Charlie says.

Dean doesn’t answer, and Charlie flashes a satisfied smile at Castiel, taking it as a tacit admission. For his part, Castiel thinks _Charlie_ is refreshing. It is out of the ordinary to see someone unrelated to Dean take such a familiar tone with him. Even the four generals treat him with nothing but deference. It’s no wonder his head is so insufferably big.

The horse suddenly takes a few quick steps to the left, and Castiel lets out a startled cry at the unexpected pain in his back. Dean’s right arm immediately moves up from its resting place to wrap around Castiel’s chest, keeping him from toppling to the side.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

That’s Dean’s voice, heated, and Castiel is confused for all of about five seconds before he realizes that Dean’s grip on him is firm but also gentle, that Dean’s angry words are not directed toward him.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, sheepish. “I just wanted to see what you’d do.”

She must have done something to startle the horse.

“Well, you happy now?” Dean says. “We’re not riding together _for fun_. Cas is hurt.”

“Yes, I realize that. I’m sorry,” Charlie repeats.

“I’m all right,” Castiel says.

“The hell you are,” Dean grumbles, but he drops the subject and urges their horse to continue down the path, and a moment later, Charlie follows.

* * *

As they get closer to the City, Dean notices smoke in the distance, gray clouds rising up slowly, difficult to make out in the fading evening light. It makes him uneasy, and he picks up the pace, terrified of what they’ll find when they return. Charlie tries to offer some words of reassurance, but they do not help.

Cas, on the other hand, says nothing. Dean initially suspects that he’s fallen asleep, especially since his eyes are closed, but he stays upright in the saddle, doesn’t go completely limp. He’s probably in too much pain to fall asleep, especially now that they’re riding faster.

A small, small part of Dean argues that he should slow down, prolong the last bit of time he’ll be spending with Cas. Because it’s true—this will likely be the last time they’re together like this. Now that Dean knows the truth, the ruse is unnecessary, and Castiel will return to the ranks.

Dean wishes Charlie weren’t here with them, if only so that he could have Cas to himself for a few more hours.

The thought is so ludicrous that Dean mentally recoils. He needs to stop thinking about Cas like this.

For some time, they ride through forest too thick to see the sky above the City, but then they reach the tree line, and—

“Dean, no,” Cas says, but—

Those are _fires_ in the lower town, flames leaping up bright and unmistakable in the dark. Smoke rises in thin wisps above the City walls, like fires have just been extinguished within.

“Cas is right,” Charlie says, urging her horse in front of Impala before Dean can charge for the City. “We don’t know what happened yet. Going in blind could be suicide.”

“We could stop whatever’s happening,” Dean argues.

“What, just the two of us and a half-dead manservant?” Charlie says, raising an eyebrow.

“You killed eight sentries and a Knight of Winchester without breaking a sweat,” Dean replies.

“Those are fires in the lower village. We couldn’t put them out, just the two of us,” Charlie says. “Especially if we have to fight a battle at the same time. You’re going to stay here and wait, and I’m going to go up to the City and assess the situation.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Dean protests.

Cas’s hand lands on Dean’s forearm, the skin of his palm strangely cold. “If an enemy has taken the City, you’ll be recognized instantly,” he says, voice hoarse. “Charlie is likely unknown to them. And if they do know of her, they’ll likely know her vendetta with the king.”

But—what if Charlie takes the chance to kill Father?

“I will not kill your father, Dean. At least, not without a fair fight,” Charlie says, guessing his thoughts. “If the City has been taken, I doubt the king will be in fighting shape.”

Dean sighs. “Fine,” he relents. “Come back to me within the hour, or I’m going in after you.”

“I can’t promise that,” Charlie says. “It depends on what lies within.”

“That’s as long as I’m willing to wait,” Dean says.

“I’ll keep him here,” Cas offers, and Charlie smiles.

“I appreciate that, buddy, but I don’t think you’re in any condition to stop Dean right now,” she says. Turning her eyes back on Dean, she says, “I promise I’ll be back soon.”

“Wait—just a minute,” Dean says. He squeezes Cas’s hip, not too hard, and tells him, “I’m getting off. Just stay put.” Then he slides off Impala, trying to ignore the way Cas winces at the movement.

Dean reaches into one of the saddlebags, retrieves a panacea plant, and walks over to Charlie.

“What is it?” she asks as she accepts the plant.

“It was our errand. If you see Bobby or Ruby—Ruby was the girl who was at Sam’s bedside when we introduced you—if you see them, give this to them. They’ll know what to do with it.”

“Sam hasn’t recovered,” Charlie says, eyes sympathetic.

Dean doesn’t know what to say, but to his relief, Charlie just nods and tugs on the reins, turning her mount away from him. She takes off down the hill toward the lower town, and Dean watches for just a moment before turning and leading Impala back into the forest.

He stops a short ways in and goes to remove the bedroll from Impala’s saddlebag, trying his best not to think about the City. _His_ city. Damn it all, he should be there.

If the City of Winchester burns to the ground, Dean should burn right with it.

A hand lands on his where it rests on the saddlebag, and Dean, startled, looks up into blue, blue eyes.

Cas’s hand is surprisingly warm on his.

“It’ll be all right,” Cas says quietly, and there’s no possible way that Cas can know that, no way that he can guarantee it, yet looking into his eyes, Dean thinks he can believe it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in getting this chapter up. Things got busy at work, and then last week, right when things were relaxing a little, I found out that someone close to the family passed away, and this week I missed a couple days of work to attend the funeral. Ever since I got back I've been having trouble sleeping.
> 
> Anyhow, I do have Chapter 12 lined up for you guys, when I'm ready to go back and edit it. And I'm slowly working on Chapter 13. I've come to the realization that with all the crap that's piling up, it's gonna take more chapters than I'd expected to wrap things up. Blargh.

An hour passes, and still there is no sign of Charlie. Not for the first time, Dean finds himself pacing. Impala glances in his direction before flicking an ear disinterestedly and taking a few steps away to continue her foraging.

“Dean,” Castiel says, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Dean says immediately, turning toward him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean is fully prepared to argue that that’s not possible, but the truth is, Cas _does_ look much better. He’s regained color in his skin, isn’t nearly as pale as Dean swears he was only an hour before. Dean is looking at Cas through new eyes—reevaluating all of their interactions with the knowledge that Cas is a battle-tested warrior—but even so, no warrior could recover from so much blood loss so quickly.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Cas says, interrupting Dean’s thoughts.

Dean pauses before moving to sit in the dirt, next to the bedroll where Castiel lies. “Ask.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

The question catches Dean off guard, makes his gut twist with anxiety. “I already told you: that didn’t happen,” he says.

“But it did,” Cas says, apparently intent on having this conversation.

Dean briefly considers knocking him out. It would keep him from speaking, and then Cas wouldn’t have to feel the pain in his back.

“What do you want me to say?” Dean asks with a sigh.

“The truth,” Cas says. “Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says.

“That’s a lie.”

Dean grinds his teeth together. “That’s no way to talk to a prince.”

“Now you’re just hiding,” Cas says.

Dean looks at Cas again and realizes that he has pushed himself up onto his elbows. Only hours before, the slightest movement made him go still with pain, yet now he doesn’t even wince.

“Dean,” Cas says again, without any sense of what is proper and what isn’t.

“You can’t call me that,” Dean reminds him.

Cas just licks his lips, slow, and Dean’s eyes track the motion, because he can’t seem to help it. The fucker is doing it on purpose.

“Cas,” Dean says, and it’s meant to be a warning.

“Dean,” Cas replies, far too deliberate, too similar to the last time for it to be coincidence, unintentional.

Against all of his better judgment, Dean leans down and presses his lips to Castiel’s, relishing the small, surprised gasp that escapes his manservant’s lips just before the contact.

Honestly, what did he fucking expect, baiting Dean like that?

Dean pulls a little, pushes a little, turns Cas onto his back so that he can lean over him, hands braced against the bedroll on either side of his head. It feels like he’s drowning, like all of time and space has compressed into this singular moment, into the heat between their bodies. He keeps pressing forward, wanting more, needing more, and Cas just keeps giving, easy and trusting, open for the taking.

There’s a scream, a flash of light and blood, and Dean draws back sharply, breathing hard.

Cas is still right there, looking startled and maybe even a little bereft.

What was that? Dream? Memory? Memory of a dream?

“You know something,” Dean says, voice shaky, and he isn’t even sure what he’s talking about, isn’t sure what it is that Cas knows.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks.

He doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s lying on his back. That should hurt him, shouldn’t it?

“You—you _know something_ ,” Dean accuses nonsensically, terror rising in the back of his throat.

“What do I know?” Cas asks slowly.

Dean swallows hard, closes his eyes. There’s heat, searing pain on his back. Lashes strike him, from in front of him and behind.

Flames lick at his skin, and this time it doesn’t feel like a dream.

“Dean,” Cas says, quiet, firm, and Dean looks at him, _really_ looks at him.

Those blue eyes are Cas’s eyes.

They’ve _always_ been Cas’s eyes.

“You were there,” Dean says, choked up. He wants to back away, but he feels paralyzed, only manages to push himself maybe a yard away before freezing up. “You were—you were _there_.”

“Where?” Cas asks.

“I hurt you,” Dean whispers, memories and dreams blending together, falling into place.

“Dean,” Cas says, and cool hands cup his face, blue eyes all he can see.

“You’re—you’re not possible,” Dean says, and he wants to pull away, but he can’t. “How did you— _who are you?_ ”

“I was one of Michael’s winged soldiers, of the garrison sent to retrieve you from Delmonica,” Cas says.

“Not possible,” Dean says, shaking his head minutely. “Not—I met all of the survivors.”

“I created a distraction to give the others a chance to escape. I was captured,” Cas says. “How much do you remember?”

Dean remembers carving into Cas’s chest. He remembers taking care not to bleed him too much, because it might kill him.

Dean remembers running with Cas, then running without Cas. Dean remembers arriving in Winchester alone, exhausted, breathless, starving, because he couldn’t stop running. Somewhere along the way, he lost Cas, left him behind. He can’t remember where or how.

He does remember wanting to dig Cas’s eyes out with a knife.

“I hurt you.”

“You weren’t yourself,” Cas says, blue eyes big and wide, wide as the great blue sea, no end in sight, and Dean, Dean is still trapped, still drowning.

Better to drown than to burn, Dean thinks hysterically as Cas’s thumb traces his cheekbone.

“You rescued me. Even—even after all that I did to you,” Dean says, stunned. “How did you do it? Why did you even _want_ to?”

Cas huffs, lips twisted in a wry smile, and answers, “Destiny.”

Dean wants to ask him what that means, but Cas’s head whips to the side, and he draws back, away from Dean, leaving him reeling.

Dean becomes aware of hoof beats, and if he were more himself, he’d be ashamed that Cas noticed them before he did. As it is, he just concentrates on breathing, tries to regain composure.

“It’s bad,” Charlie says as she dismounts. “I hardly have any information, beyond the confirmation that things are bad.”

“What do you mean?” Cas asks when Dean can’t seem to find words.

“The townspeople are spooked, terrified. No one wanted to talk to me. The people from the lower town are mostly fine, but they’re crowded into the dwellings inside the City, and they wouldn’t explain.”

“What happened? You must know something if you’re back,” Cas prods.

“What happened to _you?_ ” Charlie asks, frowning at him as though she’s just noticed that he is sitting up, no sign of pain in his pose at all.

“Answer him,” Dean orders, and he can’t help but wince at the sound of his own voice, rough and not at all like his normal tone.

“Well—I was going to try to sneak into the castle, but I didn’t have to,” Charlie says. “I saw Sam. He was uh, he wasn’t incapacitated at all, that is.”

The mention of Sam grounds Dean, reminds him of his purpose. “What do you mean?”

“I saw him snap someone’s neck, from more than ten yards away,” Charlie says in a small voice.

“That’s _impossible_ ,” Dean says.

“Certainly improbable,” Cas says, and Dean’s gaze shoots to his manservant.

“Im _probable?_ ” he repeats, and Cas’s eyes widen a fraction, like he hadn’t realized that he’d spoken aloud.

“It seems today will be a day of many truths,” Cas says. Without fanfare, he announces, “Sam has magic.”

“No,” Dean says simply. “There’s no way that Sam could have magic without my knowledge. He would have told me.”

“I don’t know, Dean. _Would_ he? You aren’t exactly a friend of magic,” Cas says.

“What, and you are?” Dean says. “Magic may be outlawed in Winchester, but Sam is my _brother_. He would certainly tell me before he would tell you.”

“He has magic,” Charlie butts in. “I saw it with my own eyes, Dean. I’m sorry.”

It’s too much.

Sam didn’t trust Dean with the biggest secret in his life. Sam told _Castiel_ about that secret, and they both proceeded to keep it from Dean.

It makes Dean so jealous he can hardly think straight. He doesn’t even know who he hates more for it—Cas for knowing more of Sam than Dean does, or Sam for having the audacity to confide in Cas, the gall to take some of Castiel for himself, away from Dean.

Because Cas has always been Dean’s, somehow. Castiel was in Delmonica with Dean. Castiel _rescued Dean from Delmonica singlehandedly_.

And _Sammy_ has _magic._

It’s impossible.

All of it is impossible.

“Dean?” Charlie says.

“Sam—Sam wouldn’t do that,” Dean says, struggling to tear himself away from his thoughts, keep himself in the present.

The issue with Cas is—it will take a long time to unwind that one. Sam’s problem is more immediate.

So Dean goes on, “Sam isn’t a killer.”

“What I just saw proves otherwise,” Charlie says. “Look—we need a plan of attack.” Dean doesn’t like the sound of that, and Charlie must be able to read it from his expression, because she quickly corrects herself, “Or a plan of _action_. We need to _do_ something.”

Dean exhales slowly and pushes himself to his feet, hoping that pacing a little will help him think. “Sam is alive,” he says, looking to Charlie for confirmation.

“Yes, I’d say he’s definitely alive,” she says.

“If he’s killing people with magic, he could be under some kind of spell or enchantment,” Dean guesses.

“People can’t be enchanted into having magic,” Cas says. “That isn’t how it works.”

“Oh, and now _you’re_ an authority on magic,” Dean says, shaking his head. “He was dying when we left the City. He’d been bedridden for days. He couldn’t have just gotten up and started using magic.”

“Well—was the illness magical in some way?” Charlie asks.

“Oh, god,” Dean says, realization hitting him. “Bobby told Cas about the panacea—that was what sent us to Puria. It was just some stupid _plant_. What if—god, what if Bobby’s behind all this?” Turning to Cas, he adds, “There were even false Purian officers there, waiting to ambush us. To kill us. _That’s_ why they attacked without even stopping to announce themselves.”

“No,” Cas says.

“It all makes sense now,” Dean says, taking a few steps away. “Sam took ill, and before he could recover, Bobby put him under some kind of spell.”

“No, Dean, you’re wrong,” Cas says.

“This is crazy,” Charlie says, apparently in agreement with Cas. “Hasn’t Bobby been working in the castle since you were a boy?”

“Well, it sure wasn’t _Sam_ killing people with magic, no matter what you saw,” Dean snaps.

“Dean!” Cas says, and Dean stops, turns back toward his manservant.

“What?!”

“It wasn’t Bobby,” Cas says. “It was Ruby. There was no panacea. There was never a panacea. She—she pulled me aside and told me that Sam had been poisoned by a magical plant, and that only the roots of that plant could cure it.”

“Then why didn’t she tell me that?”

“She said that if Bobby found out the type of poison, then he would know that Sam had magic,” Cas explains. “She swore me to secrecy, and when she saw you, she lied. Sam’s life was in danger, and we had limited time, so I didn’t contradict her.”

“So Ruby’s the one making Sam do magic,” Dean says.

“We still don’t know whether that is even possible,” Cas says, but Dean points a finger in his direction to shut him up.

“Maybe Sam is under someone else’s control. Maybe he has magic, but someone else is telling him how to use it,” Charlie says, and that’s—not good, but more acceptable than the alternative, which is that Sam is actually murdering people of his own free will.

“Wait—who was it he killed?” Dean asks.

Maybe it was an enemy, someone who posed a threat. Maybe the killing was justified.

“Just a villager, as far as I could tell,” Charlie says.

Not justified, then.

“Fine,” Dean says. “Ruby lied to us to get us out of the City, and then she put a spell on Sam. Did you hear any news of my father, or of Bobby? Of anyone else in the castle?”

“Did you see Kevin?” Cas adds.

“No sign of Kevin, and I couldn’t find Bobby,” Charlie says. “I didn’t hear anything about the king, either. Look—the villagers just told me to get out while I still could. The city gates were open, and there were guards stationed, but they weren’t actually stopping people from coming and going. And the fires—I could tell that there was a fire in the City proper, but it has already been extinguished. It looks like they’re just letting the lower town burn.”

“And no one would tell you anything,” Dean says in disbelief.

“No,” Charlie confirms, shaking her head.

“I have to go in,” Dean says.

“You can’t. You’d be recognized immediately,” Cas says.

“If my people aren’t talking to outsiders, then they’ll talk to someone they trust. A face they know,” Dean says.

“No, Dean,” Cas says.

A hand hooks around Dean’s elbow, surprisingly strong, and Dean turns to see that Cas is on his feet, seemingly unhurt.

“I thought he was injured,” Charlie says, eyes flitting between Dean and Cas. “No, I _knew_ he was injured.”

“God, no,” Dean says, tugging his arm out of Cas’s grasp and taking a few steps away. “Not you, too.”

Cas sighs. “You remember me in captivity. You must, because you said that you hurt me,” he says.

Dean doesn’t even want to look at him.

“I was chained up, Dean. Locked in a prison cell. If not by magic, how else would I have escaped?”

“Oh, my god,” Charlie says. “You mean—Dean’s mysterious return—that was _your_ doing? But you’re just—you can’t just be a manservant.”

“I was one of Sir Michael’s winged soldiers,” Cas replies.

“ _Oh_ ,” Charlie says. “Oh, that’s amazing. You hid your magic amongst soldiers.”

“Yes, and I could have him executed for practicing magic in Winchester,” Dean says, and he absolutely does _not_ flinch at the cold expression on Cas’s face when he turns back to face him. “We are wasting time. I’m going in.”

“If you must come, then we shouldn’t enter directly through the City gates,” Cas says.

“That’s where the villagers are,” Dean says.

“They’re too scared to talk, if Charlie is to be believed,” Cas says. “We should try the barracks instead. The soldiers would die at your command. They would not keep the truth from you.”

“I would’ve thought of that,” Dean says, and moves toward Impala.

“Cas, if you’re better, you can ride with me,” Charlie offers.

“Yes, thank you,” Cas says before Dean can say a word, and that’s _definitely_ for the best. It’s not as though Cas needs protection from Dean in any form.

God, Sam has magic. Cas knew about it. Cas _also_ has magic, which he used to free Dean from the cells at Delmonica, and which he apparently used to heal himself, without ever uttering a spell aloud.

And Dean had thought Cas’s status as a winged soldier was his biggest secret.

* * *

Riding across the soldiers’ training field to get to the barracks is surreal. Castiel used to live here, used to train every day on this field. He has been so intent on staying away that returning now feels wrong.

He doesn’t belong here anymore.

“We should wait outside,” Castiel says, tapping Charlie’s shoulder as they pass by a small stand of trees. She tugs on the reins to stop, and Castiel slides off. “Charlie, could you go in and ask for Balthazar?”

“Who is that?” Dean asks sharply, eyes glinting in the moonlight as he turns his horse back toward them.

“I’ll go,” Charlie says, and rides past Dean, picking up the pace a little.

Castiel steps up to Dean’s horse quickly and grabs the reins in case he decides to go after her, but his eyes are fixed on Castiel, intent. They still have much to discuss.

“Balthazar is my brother,” Castiel says, in answer to Dean’s question. “He has saved my life many times. You can stop looking so skeptical.”

Dean dismounts and tugs the reins out of Castiel’s grasp, leading the horse farther into the trees. Castiel follows quietly, patiently, and soon enough, Dean speaks up.

“So you have magic, and you’re a soldier,” he says. Stopping and turning to face Castiel, he asks, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

Castiel thinks about Alastair, about Bobby’s knowledge of Castiel, about the Great Dragon. About all those times he took away Dean’s nightmares, quieted his mind so that he could rest.

“Of course there’s more,” Dean concludes, tone resigned. “You just don’t want to tell me.”

“You’ve learned enough for tonight,” Castiel replies. “How much more truth do you think you can take?”

“I need to know what happened in Delmonica,” Dean says. “I need to—need to know everything I did to you, and how we escaped.”

Of course he needs to know. Bobby said that losing those memories would prevent Dean from finding closure. “I understand,” Castiel says, but telling Dean everything—he really doesn’t think it would help.

Then Dean asks, “Are you the reason I can’t remember?”

“Not intentionally,” Castiel says. “When you were there, you were… changed. You’d lost yourself to your captor.”

“Alastair,” Dean says, and Castiel shudders involuntarily.

“Yes,” he answers, pushing on. “I reached into your mind to remind you where your home was, and I tried to remove some of your memories of torture, but it seems I suppressed too much. When I saw you again, you had no recollection of me.”

“Why didn’t you come back with me?”

“I was weak and malnourished, and—”

“Tortured,” Dean adds, and Castiel aches at the guilt written all over Dean’s face.

“That was no fault of yours,” he says immediately.

“I was the one holding the knife,” Dean says. He steps forward abruptly, pushes his own jacket off Castiel’s shoulders, and just stares. Castiel looks down at himself, scars all across his torso bone white in the moonlight.

“Dean, don’t do this,” Castiel says, starting to bend down to retrieve the jacket, but Dean catches him by the shoulder, forces him to straighten.

“I… remember some of these,” Dean says, taking a step closer, hand dropping from Castiel’s shoulder to trace the white crescent to the right of Castiel’s bellybutton. The next breath Castiel draws is shaky, stuttering, and Dean’s eyes flick to his.

There’s sorrow, welled up in those gold-green eyes, regret for something he hardly even remembers doing, and Castiel can’t take it, not for one more second.

* * *

Dean has seen Castiel’s battered, scarred torso more than once, but he has never paid it much attention, attributing the echoes of injuries to Cas’s time as a soldier.

Now, though, his eyes are open. Now, he looks, and he _sees_.

He traces the shape of a crescent with a fingertip, distinctly remembers how careful he’d been when he drew it into Cas’s belly, how meticulous he’d been about curving it just right. He’s so wrapped up in the vivid red pooling around the incision that Cas’s gasp startles him, drags him back into the present.

And shit, here he is, forcing Castiel to relive what was possibly one of the worst experiences in his life, with the person who caused that experience, who inflicted these wounds on him.

Dean opens his mouth to apologize, but he doesn’t manage to get a word out, because Cas—

Cas leans in and kisses him, and it is absolution.

It’s quick, lasts only seconds, but Dean’s heart is racing when Cas draws back, and when Cas’s eyes open, Dean can’t help but think—hope—that the wide black of his pupils is because of more than just the dark of the night.

“Again,” Dean commands, demands, requests, _pleads_ , and Cas’s lips catch his, soft, like Dean is delicate, like he might shatter if Castiel uses too much force, and it is _agonizing._

Dean drags him closer, one hand gripping the back of his neck and the other pressed firmly to the small of his back, skin smooth and warm to the touch, and Cas follows his lead, gives easily when Dean moves forward, walks them to the nearest tree and presses Cas against it.

“Have we ever—” Dean starts when he pulls away, but he has to stop, has to catch his breath.

“Not like this,” Cas answers breathlessly, shaking his head.

But Dean remembers his dreams, remembers carving into Castiel as clearly as he remembers kissing him. It had felt so real.

“In Delmonica?”

“Never,” Cas says. “Did you—when did this start?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits.

“Have you always wanted men?”

The question makes Dean bristle. “Just you,” he replies, eyes on Cas’s lips. “You?”

“I never wanted anyone before you,” Cas says.

Dean has to kiss him for that, relishing the careful brush of Cas’s fingertips across his cheeks, sliding back to comb through his hair.

God, this isn’t—this is wrong in so many ways. Cas is a man, a soldier who possibly defected, a user of magic. He has lied to Dean on so many levels. In the eyes of the law, he deserves to die at least three times over. And he is unambiguously _male_.

Yet Dean can’t help but press in even closer, hold on even tighter. There is something wrong with him.

Oh, god.

Oh, fuck, there _could_ be something wrong with him.

Dean pulls back, shoves away from Cas, and the distance makes his fingers twitch, like they need to be holding onto Cas.

Fuck, this could all be the work of magic. Cas, Cas could’ve _done this to him_ , and Dean would have no way of knowing.

“Dean?” Cas says quietly, chest rising and falling, and Dean tries not to count the scars all over him.

“Was this you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, eyes shuttering a little.

“This,” Dean says, gesturing between them. “You—did you do this to me?”

Cas stares at him, and Dean would say that that is shock on his face, but Cas lied to him for _months_ , and Dean never suspected a thing. Of course he would know how to look genuine.

“You’re a sorcerer in Winchester,” Dean says. “You must have known that you’d get caught eventually. What better way would there be for you to escape the stake than making the crown prince want—” he can’t go on, but from the look on Cas’s face, he really doesn’t need to.

“No,” Cas denies. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I almost died just trying to _find_ you. I’d die to protect you.”

“Even after I tortured you,” Dean says. “I don’t believe you. Before you, I’d never wanted a man. And then I met you, and—”

“If I had a mind to manipulate you, it would not be through carnal desire,” Cas says.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I am more dangerous than you can possibly imagine,” Cas spits, anger flashing in his eyes. “If you discovered that I had magic, it would be far easier to kill you and frame someone else for your death than to influence you to want me. Not only would it be easier—it’d be less risky, too.”

“You say it as though I’d be easy to kill,” Dean says, more than a little stung. He’s the most powerful warrior that Winchester has to offer.

“That arrogance. Will you never be rid of it?” Cas says. “You _would_ be easy to kill. If I wanted to, I could do it with my eyes closed.”

Dean very nearly draws his sword to challenge Cas to a duel, but then he hears hoof beats approaching, and—god, he’d somehow managed to forget their reason for being here.

“We’ll finish this later,” he says to Cas, and then he turns to wait for Charlie and Cas’s brother.

* * *

Castiel thinks he could _throttle_ Dean for his accusations. To keep his hands occupied, he stoops to snatch up Dean’s jacket and shrug it back on. In all their time together, Castiel has never once done something that wasn’t in Dean’s best interests, and in return, _this_ is what he gets.

Arrogant, insufferable prince who kisses infuriatingly well.

“Oh my god.”

Castiel looks up at the voice, because it is not Balthazar’s. “Samandriel,” he says. “Where is Balthazar?”

“Oh, my god.”

“You said that already,” Charlie says, coming to a stop behind Samandriel and dismounting.

Samandriel practically leaps off his horse in his haste to reach Castiel, but Dean steps in the way, hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

Arrogant, insufferable, _overprotective_ _moron_ who kisses infuriatingly well.

“You’re _alive_ ,” Samandriel says, undeterred by Dean’s stance. “You’re—Cas, they’ve all been saying that you survived, but I didn’t—I just—I couldn’t believe it.” His voice wavers as he speaks, and Castiel is reminded that he was one of the youngest in the garrison, hardly old enough to be drafted.

Castiel steps around Dean and draws Samandriel into the embrace he so clearly wants, and he hears the prince huff behind him, no doubt indignant at being overlooked for someone else. He must hate relinquishing his position as the center of the world, if only for a moment.

“I didn’t know how to tell you that I’d survived,” Castiel admits. Pulling back, he sees that Samandriel’s eyes are watery, tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry, but I need to know: what happened to Balthazar? Why isn’t he here?”

Samandriel nods, stepping back to gather himself. Eyes flitting over Castiel’s shoulder, he seems to notice Dean for the first time and says, “Is that—is that really Prince Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Then something truly terrible has happened,” Samandriel says. “We received word yesterday afternoon that the prince was killed, and that his death was at your hand.”

“Where did this word come from?” Dean asks.

“I think it was the south,” Samandriel says. “From one of Sir Lucifer’s most trusted couriers.”

“ _Where is Balthazar?_ ” Castiel demands, because this does not bode well.

Samandriel’s eyes drop to the ground. “Everyone—they all think that you killed the prince. Balthazar, he—he knew that you had come back, and he knew that you chose not to return to the army, as you were required to. They’ve charged him as a coconspirator in Prince Dean’s murder.”

Castiel steps back and immediately gets a hand pressed to the small of his back—he must have nearly collided with Dean. Taking a deep breath to center himself, he asks, “And—Mother? Did they take my mother?”

“Yes,” Samandriel says, voice heavy. “But—but if you both show yourselves before Prince Sam, then they’ll know you didn’t kill Prince Dean.”

“But they’d still be considered coconspirators, just for a different crime,” Charlie says. “The laws of Winchester dictate a severe punishment for deserters.”

“Death,” Castiel confirms. “I’ll testify that I coerced them into keeping my secret. Then they won’t have to die with me.”

“No,” Dean says. “We don’t know if Sam is in his right mind, remember? Someone else is pulling strings, manipulating him. We need to find that influence and remove it before confronting him with the truth.”

“Don’t you think telling him the truth would be the best way for that influence to show its hand?” Castiel points out. “Wait—what about the king? Why would we have to show ourselves before Prince Sam and not King John?”

“The king is dying,” Samandriel says. The hand resting at Castiel’s back curls into a fist and pulls away.

“How?” Dean asks.

“We don’t know,” Samandriel says. “It is an illness, or maybe a poison. Apparently, whatever happened to Prince Sam happened to the king. The uh, the rumor is that uh…”

“That _what?_ Spit it out!” Dean barks when Samandriel’s voice trails off.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says reprovingly, because Dean shouldn’t be impatient right now—he should be bracing himself for whatever Samandriel is about to say. Given his hesitation, it will not be easy to hear.

“Sorry, sire,” Samandriel says. “It’s just that—Prince Sam has shown that he has magic. The faith healer said that the only reason Prince Sam survived the illness is because his magic was able to fight it off. And we all know that King John doesn’t have magic.”

Dean is still and silent at Castiel’s back, but Castiel resists the urge to turn toward him, to comfort him somehow. For all Castiel knows, Dean could want him dead now, for making him capable of wanting a man, as implausible and ridiculous as it is.

“Faith healer?” Charlie asks. “What of the royal physician?”

“Last we heard, he was still trying to save the king,” Samandriel says. “But he wasn’t able to save Prince Sam, not before the faith healer arrived.”

“Who is this faith healer?” Castiel asks.

“We don’t know her name. Most of us haven’t seen her, either. We’ve only heard about her—she was the one who saved Prince Sam.”

Castiel exhales slowly. Samandriel is not the right person to be asking about this. They need information from the source. “We need to speak with Bobby,” he says.

“Prince Sam has decreed that he isn’t to leave the king’s side,” Samandriel says. “His apprentice has taken on his duties for the past day.”

Apprentice? Castiel hadn’t even realized that Bobby had an apprentice.

“Do you know where Sir Michael is?” Dean asks. “I want you to bring him to me.”

“I can hardly give commands to the general,” Samandriel says. “I haven’t said more than a handful of words to him, and that was only because I’d returned from Delmonica alive.”

Castiel hears movement, a rustling that doesn’t sound like the wind, and hisses, “Down!”

Charlie and Samandriel obey immediately. Castiel cannot tell whether Dean does the same, but it doesn’t matter, because the bolt is let loose with a soft zinging sound, and its target is unmistakably Castiel. He barks a few quick words in the Old Tongue and forces the bolt to drop to the floor halfway through its flight path.

“Show yourself,” Castiel snaps, certain that he already knows the identity of their eavesdropper.

Sure enough, Heston steps out of the trees.

“I wasn’t aiming to kill,” Heston says, pointing the crossbow up at the tops of the trees, away from anyone in the small clearing. He holds up his free hand, palm facing out, placating. “This conversation is taking too long. Your mother and brother are meant to be executed at sunrise.”

“Funny, if you cared so much what would happen to them, you wouldn’t have reported Cas’s death to Sir Michael,” Samandriel says, tone surprisingly venomous.

Castiel places a hand on Samandriel’s shoulder to quiet him. “Explain,” he says.

“We were told that an assassin was placed in the castle to kill the royal family, that he had already succeeded with Dean, and that he would likely return to finish off the others. When the fires started in the lower town and spread into the City, we evacuated the lower town and were told to be on alert,” Heston says. “Then they showed us a rendering of the assassin’s face, but it was yours. I told Sir Michael that it was impossible, because I believed at the time that you were already dead. Clearly, you aren’t.”

He is angry. Castiel doesn’t blame him.

“What did you hope to accomplish by shooting Cas?” Dean asks.

“I thought we could bring him to the prince,” Heston says. “He is a user of magic—we are all witnesses. He is also a deserter. And he is skilled with deception. We could argue that he deceived his mother and brother. We could have them released. Uriel and Inias, too.”

“What—those two knew nothing about my return,” Castiel says, surprised. “Why were they detained?”

“They fought the men who tried to take Balthazar,” Heston says. “The prince nearly handed down the same charges to them, but we hear he was persuaded not to. They’re not to be released until after the execution, for fear of some attempt to release Balthazar and your mother.”

“So the most important thing right now is to get them out,” Charlie says. “We’ve no time to waste. We can’t have more than a few hours left before sunrise.”

“I still need to speak with Michael. He is a voice of reason. Sam might have confided in him,” Dean says.

“From what I’ve heard, the prince isn’t being reasonable, which is in itself reasonable. He is grief-stricken,” Heston says.

“Yes, well. His unreasonableness is going to get Balthazar killed, so we need him to see reason,” Samandriel says. “I still think it’d be best if both of you went to Prince Sam directly.”

“Not now,” Dean says before Castiel can answer.

Castiel wonders whether Dean is simply afraid to confront Sam. Perhaps he fears that Sam’s regard for him will not be enough to overcome the—the reasoning, the magic. Whatever is influencing his actions.

“Charlie says she saw Sam kill someone with magic,” Dean continues. “The Sam I knew would never do that. We have to find the person who’s controlling him and stop them.”

“Kevin, then,” Castiel suddenly realizes. “We need to speak with Kevin.”

“Who is Kevin?” Heston asks.

“Sam’s manservant,” Dean answers. “You’re right—Kevin would have been up close when everything happened. Can we get to him?”

“We’re not allowed to leave the base without express permission from the general,” Samandriel says.

“I doubt you’re allowed to be strategizing with a fugitive, either,” Castiel says. “Uriel was captain of this new garrison. Who is in charge, now that he has been locked up?”

“He has retained his station, by some miracle. But for now, the garrison answers to Heston.”

“I’ll request a private audience with Sir Michael, but I doubt he would come out here to see you. We should sneak you into the barracks,” Heston says.

“Right, straight into a place that we won’t be able to escape because it’s full of winged soldiers,” Charlie says. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

“Don’t be silly, Charlie. Dean won’t need to escape,” Castiel says. “You and I won’t be going with him.”

“What?” Dean says.

“There are two objectives, here. We need to discover everything that happened to put Sam in charge while we were gone—if we find out the people who benefit the most from his rise to power, then we’ll know the culprits. But if we cannot do that in time, we need to get my mother and Balthazar out of prison,” Castiel says.

“We should go with you to rescue your family, then,” Samandriel says. “You’ll need help.”

“I took Dean from the cells of Delmonica without any help,” Castiel says. To illustrate his point, he lifts a hand, palm up, and lets a flame flicker to life. “Having Charlie’s sword will be more than enough assistance.”

“ _Please_ put that out,” Heston hisses, eyes narrowed.

“It’s just magic,” Samandriel says defensively. “Cas is still Cas, no matter what skills he has.”

Heston tuts, annoyed, and it has been so long since Castiel heard the sound that he actually smiles. “You misunderstand me,” Heston says. “The light out here could draw attention.”

“You were just saying that we could turn Cas in for using magic,” Samandriel says, incomprehension furrowing his brow.

“Yes, to dismiss the charges laid against his family,” Heston says. “Breaking him out of prison would have come after that. I can’t believe you think me capable of sending one of our brothers to the stake.”

Castiel can’t help but wince at the words, because he had thought the very same of Heston. He has always been brutally efficient, detached in a way that made him seem heartless. Castiel remembers thinking more than once that Heston would’ve been the one to turn him in, if he learned the truth.

“We’ve dallied enough,” Heston says, clearing his throat. “Prince Dean, please come with us into the barracks. You can leave your steed here—this grove is not scheduled to be used for training, not for some time. Samandriel will take you to my quarters. I will ask for Sir Michael’s presence.” Looking at Castiel and Charlie, he adds, “Best of luck to you both.”

“Take my horse,” Samandriel volunteers. “We’re much closer to the barracks, and you have a deadline.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, extending an arm and clasping Samandriel’s forearm when he returns the gesture. He does the same with Heston, holding on a little longer because he doesn’t know how to convey his feelings—his relief, his apology, his gratitude at having such a devoted friend.

“Go,” Heston says with a small nod, and Castiel manages a smile before moving to mount up.

On horseback, he looks down and catches Dean’s eye, sees something sorrowful there for just a moment, the millisecond that it takes for Dean to realize he is looking back.

Dean is mourning something, but he does not want Castiel to know about it.

That is just as well. Castiel is sick and tired of worrying about what Dean might think of him, whether Dean might find out the truth. Dean knows the truth of him now, and Castiel has more important things—namely, the lives of his mother and his brother—to worry about.

Castiel rides away without a word to his former master. He does not need to answer to anyone, not anymore. He will stay until this has been sorted out, but when it is done, his life in Winchester will be over. It should be a freeing thought, but Castiel feels doubly shackled, trapped on this path, where the only way to go is forward. Away from the City of Winchester, the Kingdom of Winchester.

Away from Dean.

Suddenly, he understands exactly what Dean is mourning.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems I'm always apologizing about being late. Arrrgh. (Sorry. I'm literal trash.)

The trek out to the barracks takes longer than Dean would have liked, but he can only blame it on himself. He attempts to run the entire distance, but he tires quickly, exhausted from the full day’s ride and the long days before it, and has to slow down to a light jog.

Heston and Samandriel keep pace with him easily, running slightly ahead and to either side of him, strides long and perfectly in sync even though Dean can see that they never look at each other.

They stop at a small, plain door, and Dean realizes with chagrin that he has never been here before. He has come to the barracks, of course, has walked through the halls where the winged soldiers reside, but he has never spent time on their training fields, has never entered through their entrance. Dean has always prided himself on training right alongside the knights, but they have always come to him, on the royal training field.

The knights are brave men, of course, but the common soldiers, and the winged soldiers… Dean hadn’t thought much of them before, but looking between Samandriel and Heston, he recognizes that they are no less brave. That only the nobility have the right to be knighted suddenly seems like such a farce.

“Escort him straight to my room. I’ll bring Sir Michael as soon as I can,” Heston says to Samandriel, and then he slips inside.

Left alone with Dean, Samandriel hesitates a moment before saying, “Follow me, sire. As quietly as you can, please.”

They enter the building slowly, but no matter how gently they tread, their footsteps seem to echo in the empty hallways. Fortunately, they do not encounter another soul, and soon enough, Samandriel stops at a door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let Dean in first before entering himself and securing the door behind them.

Dean lets his breath out in a relieved exhale, gaze sweeping the small room. A cot takes up most of the space, much like Cas’s bed-closet up in the castle, but there is more room here—a desk is placed against one of the walls, with just enough space for a chair between it and the cot. A few books lie on the desk, covered in dust.

“Charlie was very fortunate to run into me tonight,” Samandriel comments.

“What do you think would have happened if she hadn’t?” Dean asks, intrigued.

“She was asking after Balthazar,” Samandriel says. “She would’ve been brought before Sir Michael, and Prince Sam soon after, I’m sure.”

Dean chuckles. “Didn’t you hear about the woman who impersonated a knight and slew eight castle guards and a knight of Winchester?”

“Oh. That was her? I’d never have guessed.”

“I’ve faced her in the ring,” Dean says. “She is a worthy opponent.”

“She wouldn’t have been able to escape the barracks, even if she did manage to kill eight men in her attempt to escape,” Samandriel says. “Two hundred soldiers live in this building, and the next one houses just as many.”

Dean has no response to that, so he lets the conversation die. But there is very little to take in about his surroundings, so he finds himself observing Samandriel instead, surreptitiously.

The boy is young, certainly younger than Castiel. Dean only has a faint impression of him; he hadn’t spoken a word—apart from _sire_ —when he came with the other survivors to meet Dean at the castle.

In Delmonica, Castiel created a diversion so that Samandriel and the others might escape. They must have fought together, saw their friends fall by the dozen until they were alone, just the six of them.

If anyone knows the truth of Cas’s character, it’ll be one of the five whose lives he saved.

“Tell me about Castiel,” Dean says.

Samandriel blinks owlishly at him and says, “I do not think I should.”

“That wasn’t a request,” Dean says, and the soldier regards him mistrustfully.

“Cas is like a brother to me,” he says. “I have the utmost respect for you, sire, but I cannot simply betray his trust.”

“So you would die for me, but you will not speak to me,” Dean says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If I may, why do you want me to tell you about him?”

“My motivations are none of your concern,” Dean says.

“I only wish to know whether he will be in harm’s way,” Samandriel says. “You have never been a friend of magic, sire, and neither has the king. I fear that even if magic is proven to be the thing that saves him, and even though it must have been what freed you—what saved us all in Delmonica—I fear that Cas will be put to death for it.”

Dean clenches his jaw at the thought. “I have no desire to see him dead.”

“Desire,” Samandriel repeats softly, and Dean curses himself for even uttering the word, harmless as it may have seemed. “What of him do you desire to see, sire?”

He may be a boy, but he sees with alarming clarity.

“I don’t know. Everything,” Dean bites out. “Anything.”

Samandriel ducks his head, hiding from Dean’s gaze, and Dean turns away, tries to compose himself. He has revealed too much to a person too unknown to him. Unacceptable.

“Cas feels deep,” Samandriel says quietly, carefully, and Dean immediately turns toward him, has to see the words as they are spoken, needs to feel the weight of them, measure them in the air. “He keeps the world at arm’s length, because it is dangerous for him otherwise. Learning that he has magic has only made him clearer in my eyes, easier to see.

“His loyalty is very valuable. He would go to the ends of the earth, not just for Balthazar, but for any one of us. His trust is precious and absolute and especially difficult to earn. I have never seen him betrayed by one in whom he placed his trust. There are so few of us.”

Unsurprisingly, Samandriel has only good things to say. It is reassuring to hear that Castiel has unshakable loyalty, but loyalty to whom? Dean is not confident that Cas’s loyalty truly lies with him.

“You want to know whether he trusts you,” Samandriel says, voice even softer now. Gentler. “Sire…”

“I know he doesn’t trust me,” Dean says before Samandriel can try to soften the blow. “I’ve done nothing to earn his trust.”

“Sorry, sire,” Samandriel says, and though Dean knew it to be true, having confirmation from one of Cas’s closest friends somehow makes it worse.

There’s a sharp rap on the door, and Samandriel answers with two taps of his own. A quick rhythm follows, and then Samandriel pulls the door open. Heston steps inside alone and shuts the door.

“Sir Michael is not in the barracks,” he reports, much to Dean’s dismay. “I spoke with his page, who said that he was summoned for an emergency meeting at the castle. The page did not know what this meeting was about.”

“It can’t be anything good,” Dean says. “We need to find out what it is.”

“How do you propose we go about doing that, sire?”

“I’m going to go into the castle and ask the right person,” Dean says.

“With all due respect, sire, _we_ are going to go into the castle and ask the right person,” Heston interjects. “Once we’re out of the barracks, though, and especially when we’re in the castle, you may have to lead the way.”

Dean very nearly forbids them from coming with him, but he must admit he feels better about entering the castle with support, in case they encounter any resistance.

“That will not be a problem,” he says, and moves toward the door.

* * *

Now that his magic is known, Castiel uses a simple cloaking spell to get himself and Charlie past the guards stationed in the dungeons. They’ve at least doubled in number since he was last here, drawing upon the soldiers in Sir Michael’s army to strengthen their ranks.

Charlie follows him silently, almost too silently, and more than once he has to check that he hasn’t left her behind.

“You don’t need to keep absolutely silent,” he says. “They won’t hear us speak.”

There’s still a moment of silence, as though Charlie is waiting for the guards to respond to Castiel’s voice, before she says, “You’re that powerful. Ah, but of course you are. You rescued Dean singlehandedly from the bowels of the Delmonican dungeons. That can’t have been an easy feat, even with magic.”

“What would you know of the Delmonican dungeons?” Castiel asks.

Charlie shrugs and responds lightly, “Only what I’ve heard.”

It sounds honest. “They didn’t expect me to have magic,” Castiel tells her. “That was my advantage.”

“So what happened there?” Charlie asks. “When we met hardly a week ago, Dean must’ve had no clue what you’d done. No one knew.”

“Magic,” Castiel replies shortly, because he doesn’t want to justify himself.

Charlie tuts but moves on, “What of your relationship?”

“Relationship?” Castiel repeats, trying the word out and disliking the shape of it in his mouth. “Me and Dean?”

“Yes, relationship. You and Dean,” Charlie confirms.

“I don’t care about him beyond the fact that he’s the prince,” Castiel says. Lies. And it _is_ a lie, he realizes with a pang, because some part of him still wants—wants _something_.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Charlie says, hand wrapping around Castiel’s wrist to stop him in the middle of a hallway.

Turning, he spots the patrol coming up behind her and quickly presses her toward the wall, leaning flat against it himself just beside her. The men pass by without touching them, and Castiel exhales, steps away from the wall.

“You didn’t give me a straight answer,” Charlie prods.

“We’re wasting time,” Castiel says.

“We have until daybreak,” Charlie counters. “Once this whole mess is sorted out, you and Dean will have to talk. Don’t you think you ought to know where your head is before you talk to him?”

“There is nothing left to discuss.”

Charlie huffs, impatient. “Castiel, I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like nothing and no one in the world could matter more. And Dean—you’d be surprised how protective of you he looked, cradling you in the saddle like that.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Castiel says, but he can’t meet Charlie’s eyes.

“You’re the one who’s being foolish.”

Castiel steels himself and forces his gaze up, looks into her guileless face. She only means well.

“Dean will never trust me again, not after finding out that I lied to him for so long,” he says, because until Charlie hears the truth, she will not let this go. “It doesn’t matter that I’d lay down my life for him. I expect he’ll let me live if we get through this with his father and his brother alive, but I have magic, Charlie. I can’t stay in Winchester anymore.”

At these words, a blinding headache blooms behind his eyes, and Castiel doubles over with the force of it. Dimly, he’s aware that Charlie is speaking to him, concerned, but all he can hear is his name, repeated intensely, insistently. Deafening.

“I’m all right,” he says, straightening, but he can’t hear his own voice, and the look on Charlie’s face says he hasn’t convinced her at all.

_CASTIEL_.

He winces, grits his teeth.

“What is it?” Castiel reads from Charlie’s lips, because it seems his ears still aren’t functioning as they should.

There’s no other way. He’ll have to take her to the Great Dragon with him.

“Come with me,” Castiel says, and waits for Charlie’s nod before moving.

Head pounding, he takes off at a light jog down the corridor toward the gates that close off the downward stairs. They run past some occupied cells—Balthazar and Mother in the first, and then Inias and Uriel caged separately—and though they cannot see him, he feels guilty passing them by. Castiel promises himself he’ll return to them immediately.

The long staircase seems to take twice as long to traverse with the Great Dragon’s voice rattling inside his skull, but at last, they reach the bottom. Castiel passes the torch to Charlie and gestures for her to stay a few steps back as he moves out onto the ledge, squinting into the dark.

Golden eyes flick open, closer than Castiel had expected, and as his eyes adjust, he makes out the dragon’s shape. The dreadful yelling stops.

“Was that really necessary?” Castiel bites out, ears ringing in the sudden silence.

“You wouldn’t have come unless I made you,” the dragon says shrewdly.

“Fine,” Castiel says. “Make it quick.”

“I have seen some of what has happened in the days since you left,” the dragon says, an old sadness in his eyes. “It is a future that I knew was possible, somewhere in the distant future, but I did not know how much I feared it until now—until its eve.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of _quick_.”

“You must kill Sam of Winchester,” the dragon pronounces, calm as ever.

“What?” Charlie blurts out behind Castiel.

“No,” Castiel says.

The dragon snorts in annoyance, a burst of warm air buffeting Castiel. He hears Charlie take a step back.

“Dean _must_ be the one to rule Winchester,” the dragon says. “Under Sam’s reign, darkness will prevail. There will be no peaceful coexistence of magic users with non-magical folk. It will be war, war not only against enemies of Winchester, but within Winchester itself. The kingdom will fall, and the land will erupt into chaos.”

“Sam has a kind heart,” Castiel says. “He is young yet to rule, but he would not plunge this land into war.”

“Cas,” Charlie says quietly, “from what I saw—”

“That wasn’t—it could not have been the entire story,” Castiel says, and he knows in his heart that he is right. He knows Sam. Knows Dean.

“You saw him kill a man,” the dragon says softly, eyes finally skipping past Castiel and landing on his other visitor.

“ _Charlie,_ ” Castiel hisses even as she confirms, “Yes.”

“He has great potential within him. It can do good, but it is far more likely to do evil,” the dragon says. “The future is not set in stone. But I have seen Sam’s reign, and it ends in blood and sorrow. You must kill him before the king dies, or a dark power will take control over these lands, and all will be lost.”

“Before the king dies,” Castiel repeats. “So John is indeed still alive—he may yet recover.” The dragon does not reply, which is answer enough. “If I save him, Sam won’t take over,” Castiel says.

“That worthless hide will not thank you for saving his life, Castiel,” the Great Dragon says stiffly. “He will recover, and then he will order your execution.”

“He has a point,” Charlie says.

“Do you hear yourself right now? You’re talking about letting the king—” Castiel cuts himself off with a sigh when he sees the look on Charlie’s face.

Right. She came to the City specifically to kill him. Of course she wouldn’t mind watching him die.

Turning back toward the dragon, Castiel says, “Dean isn’t ready to rule. He is strong, but he would buckle under the weight of the entire kingdom.”

“And you speak as though you have no regard for him,” Charlie scoffs.

“I have no regard for him outside of a soldier’s loyalty to his prince,” Castiel replies evenly. Above him, the golden eyes flicker, and Castiel is reminded of his purpose. “Great Dragon, you cannot leave this place, and you will not get your way—not by my hand.”

“Child—”

“No,” Castiel says, adamant. “I refuse to kill Sam, and I doubly refuse to simply let John die. I will do everything in my power to save him, so you might as well help. A second spent not worrying about his death will be a second we can spend salvaging Sam’s situation.”

“Why are you so intent on preserving their lives?” the dragon asks. “Sam, perhaps, I understand. But John would kill you simply for being who you are.”

“It’s irrelevant,” Castiel says.

“You love him,” the dragon says suddenly, and Castiel balks.

“I do not love King John. Are you mad?”

“Not the king, of course. Dean. You love Dean.”

The words punch the air straight out of Castiel’s lungs, and he forces himself to draw breath, to scramble for calm. “Dean has caused me nothing but pain,” he argues.

“That is, as you said, irrelevant,” the dragon says, eyes wondering. “Love is inexplicable and powerful and all-encompassing. I cannot believe that I did not see this before. Now that my eyes are open, I see that it was inevitable. No matter the path, you always would have come to this point.”

“If you know as much as you claim to know—see as much as you claim to see—then you should know the accusation Dean has thrown at me,” Castiel says, cringing at the bitterness that he cannot keep out of his tone.

“Dean is scared, and rightly so. Wouldn’t you be?” the dragon answers. “Have faith in Dean, and in yourself. Destiny has shown me that this path leads only to misery, but you… if anyone could change the path of destiny, it would be you.”

“Will you help, then?” Castiel asks.

“John has fallen prey to the very same poison that plagued Sam.”

This confirms the rumor Samandriel mentioned about King John’s illness paralleling Sam’s, but— “Wouldn’t that be too easy?” Castiel asks. “Ruby already gave me the answer.”

“ _Ruby_ ,” the dragon repeats, as though the word repulses him. “The witch never expected you or Dean to return. And she already knew that your physician did not recognize the poison of the venenean plant. Why would she risk using another poison that he might be able to cure?”

Reasonable. “Thank you,” Castiel says.

“Best of luck, child.”

Castiel bows his head and meets the dragon’s eyes once more before turning to leave the cavern, ushering Charlie up the stairs when she doesn’t move immediately.

“You’re friends with the Great Dragon,” Charlie says when they’re nearly at the top. “Why am I not surprised.”

“I would not say that we are friends,” Castiel replies.

“Close enough. He has intimate knowledge of you, if not you of him,” Charlie argues. A beat later, she asks, “Was he telling the truth? What accusations has Dean made?”

“The dragon has an agenda,” Castiel says. “Not all of his words can be taken at face value. I do not love Dean.”

These last five words burn his throat and scald his tongue, and abruptly, disconcertingly, Castiel hears their falseness ring out in the corridor, hanging in the air between him and his companion.

“Even _you_ didn’t believe that,” Charlie observes at length. “Did you really think it would convince me?”

At the top of the staircase, Castiel hears banging, followed swiftly by a guard’s scolding, words indecipherable but tone unmistakable. Footsteps come their way but turn before reaching them, the patrol reaching its end and returning the way it had come, and Castiel gestures for Charlie to follow him.

“That was foolish,” he eventually hears in Inias’s hushed tones, and oh, Castiel has missed him so much.

“If I had another minute, I could have lifted the door from its hinges,” Uriel responds in his low baritone.

Castiel steps into the light, looks into the two neighboring cells, and shudders with regret at his actions. Uriel, standing strong as ever, seems to have fared all right; his dark skin may be able to conceal bruises, but there is ostensibly no blood on him. Inias, however, has a split lip, a swollen eye, and a cut high up on his cheek. He is seated against the wall, legs drawn up, elbows resting on knees, so Castiel cannot see most of his body, but the sleeves of his tunic are split in two—no, three—places, formerly white cloth stained the color of rust. Blood.

Castiel did this to him, to them. By keeping his return a secret—keeping his most trusted friends in the dark—he may as well have put them here with his own hands.

A hand grips his elbow, gentle, and distantly, Castiel hears Charlie say his name. He remembers belatedly that they are still cloaked—that his friends cannot see them. So he extends the boundaries of his spell, ensures that their words will go unheard.

“Do not call for the guards,” Castiel says, because he cannot be certain that the spell will be enough to muffle a shout that is too loud.

Inias immediately shrinks further into himself, shoulders hunching inward, head bowing a little to hide his face. Afraid.

Uriel, however, takes a step closer to the bars, eyes straining, fixed on the spot where Castiel stands.

“Can’t you let them see us?” Charlie asks.

“Not without rendering them invisible as well,” Castiel says. “It is already suspicious enough to mask their voices.”

“Cas,” Uriel breathes, as though he doesn’t dare believe it.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms.

“How are you doing this?” Uriel asks, as though the answer isn’t already obvious to them all.

“What on earth is the matter with you two?” Balthazar asks before Castiel can answer, his voice drifting from the cell just past Uriel’s.

“Can he not hear us?” Uriel asks.

“Not yet,” Castiel replies.

“I’d have expected at least half an hour of bickering, for my entertainment,” Balthazar goes on, as though he is not facing imminent death.

Exhaling shakily, Castiel forces himself to pass by Uriel’s cell so that he can peer into Balthazar’s. He is unharmed, must not have fought. Castiel can see it in his mind’s eye, can see him shouting at Uriel and Inias to stay back, to let him be taken even as men put him in chains.

Undoubtedly, he blames himself for everything his friends have suffered when it is Castiel’s fault.

Mother lies curled up on the straw, head pillowed on Balthazar’s thigh, eyes open but unseeing. Balthazar’s hand rests on her shoulder, thumb moving slowly, soothingly.

With some effort, Castiel brings Balthazar and Mother into their shroud of silence. He has never maintained a cloaking spell like this for so long a time, and only now, he begins to feel its draining effect.

“Mother, brother, I’ve come for you,” he says.

Light returns to Mother’s eyes instantly, and she whispers, “Castiel.”

Another patrol starts coming down the hall, though, and Castiel refrains from speaking, lest the guards look too closely and notice that their prisoners are speaking soundlessly.

When it passes, Castiel says, “Can you run? All of you.”

Balthazar and Mother are already on their feet, and looking into the next cell, Castiel sees Uriel step closer to the bars.

“Inias,” Castiel says, and gestures to Charlie. “You may have to help him.”

“They hurt his ankle. I do not think any bones broke, but it will be difficult for him to walk,” Balthazar confirms, stepping forward. “Where are you?”

“Right here.” Castiel reaches between the bars and meets Balthazar’s searching hand with his own, fingers clasping together.

“God, you—” Balthazar says, voice shaky. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Castiel, we need to hurry, if we’re doing this now,” Charlie urges.

Castiel nods and closes his eyes, concentrating. Inias’s lock slides free first, and Uriel’s is easier. Balthazar’s is easier still, and Castiel tugs the door open, withdrawing his hand from his brother’s only to be nearly bowled over, caught up in his arms.

“I thought you’d died—that they’d killed you to bury their deception,” he says, trembling.

“They didn’t, though not for lack of trying,” Castiel says into his brother’s shoulder.

Balthazar backs up a step, and Castiel moves into the cell to pull Mother out. Her eyes seek his face, and despite the weariness that has begun to set in, Castiel cloaks her, lets her see him.

“Oh, my poor boy,” she says, eyes glistening.

“We have to go,” Castiel says.

“You really ought to cloak them too, if you have the strength,” Charlie says from down the corridor, supporting Inias’s weight awkwardly—Inias seems reluctant to touch her, drawing away despite the pain he must feel whenever he puts weight on his own ankle.

Uriel moves to take Charlie’s place, and Castiel draws a deep breath before bringing them all under.

“It really is you,” Inias says, and it breaks Castiel’s heart that there is a hint of fear in his eyes.

“Yes. Now come. We need to leave before the patrol returns and finds you gone.”

Castiel leads the way down the hall, holding onto Mother’s hand because she hasn’t let him go. Balthazar follows close behind, and when Castiel glances behind him, he sees that Charlie is bringing up the rear, ensuring that Uriel and Inias stay in front of her.

The stairs up to ground level prove less of a challenge than Castiel feared with Inias’s injured ankle, but he supposes he should have expected as much from his comrades—they’ve weathered all that fate has dealt them thus far, made it through harsher terrain with injuries more severe.

Out in the courtyard, Castiel stops in the shadow of the western wall, not far from the prison gates. “You need a safe place to hide,” he says, turning around.

“Not in the City,” Uriel says. “It must be overcrowded after the fires in the lower village.”

“What started the fire?” Charlie asks.

“Arsonists, we were told. The prince decreed that everyone be evacuated to the City for safety, when the fire got out of hand,” Uriel replies. Unlike Heston, he doesn’t mention that Castiel was the suspected arsonist. Looking around, he adds, “The stone walls were enough to keep the fire from spreading too far into the City.”

“So it seems,” Castiel agrees. After a moment of consideration, he says, “Inias, Mother, the two of you should take refuge in the barracks. There are too many eyes in the City, and when we rode in, the lower town was still burning.”

“Take Samandriel’s quarters,” Uriel suggests to Inias. “If a search should begin, they would start with my room and yours, and Balthazar’s.”

“Why are we talking about hiding in the City?” Balthazar says. “Shouldn’t we be leaving this place?”

“No. Not now, and not like this,” Castiel says.

Balthazar’s jaw ticks. “Prince Sam sentenced Mother and me like it was nothing. He would have ordered your execution just as easily. I feel no lingering loyalty to him, or to anyone related to him. I don’t give a damn what happens to this city, or to this kingdom. It can all burn, for all I care.”

“Sam cannot—I do not think Sam is controlling his own actions right now,” Castiel says. “I have known him for some time. He would not hurt people intentionally.”

“Have you not seen what they did to Inias?” Balthazar snaps.

“Enough,” Uriel says, commands, and Balthazar holds his tongue.

“Mother, please go with Inias,” Castiel says. “Trust me.”

Mother looks at him pleadingly. “I think your brother is right. We need to leave this place before they find us. When they realize we’ve escaped, they’ll kill us on sight.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Castiel says, but he drops his gaze to the floor for a moment, and then he looks between his family members, lets his eyes settle on Balthazar’s. “If you really feel that you must leave, leave now. I will not go with you.”

Alarm bells toll overhead, echoing doom across the courtyard.

“We’re out of time,” Castiel says.

“If we die because of this—if Mother dies because of this—I’ll never forgive you,” Balthazar says.

Castiel nods his acceptance and helps Inias over to Mother, who grasps Inias’s hand, shouldering his weight with little difficulty. Castiel wonders when Inias grew so frail. Could the illusion of Castiel’s death have hurt him so badly?

He murmurs a few quick words under his breath, holding their clasped hands, and nearly staggers as the spell draws on his strength.

“Stay in the shadows,” Castiel says. “Take your time. The cloaking spell will hold for an hour—plenty of time for you to reach the barracks. Please be careful.”

Mother seems resigned. “Take care of yourself, and your brother,” she whispers.

“Of course,” Castiel says. He nods at Inias, but it doesn’t feel like enough. So he reaches out a hand and cups Inias’s face, careful not to put pressure on his bruises, and leans in, presses a quick kiss to Inias’s temple. “I’m so sorry.”

Inias smiles at him, lips thin and eyes tight, and though he doesn’t say it, Castiel knows he is forgiven.

Mother and Inias start to leave, keeping to the shadows as Castiel said, and it is just as well, for the next moment, guards come streaming out of the exit. Castiel flattens himself against the wall behind him, and Uriel, Balthazar, and Charlie do the same beside him.

“I take it we’re going up to the castle without meeting Dean first,” Charlie says as the soldiers continue to jog right past them.

“Dean?” Uriel says. “So the prince lives.”

“He does,” Castiel confirms. “And yes, Charlie, we are going to the castle without meeting Dean.”

“Don’t you think it’d be better if—”

“No,” Castiel interrupts.

“Where is he?” Uriel asks.

“With Heston and Samandriel,” Castiel says. “They took him to the barracks to find Michael.”

“What?” Uriel says.

“ _Sir_ Michael,” Castiel says slowly, frowning. He has never known Uriel to be a stickler for titles.

“No, I know,” Uriel says. “But Sir Michael is not there. He…”

“What, you still can’t tell us what he told you, even now that you know you cannot be overheard?” Balthazar says scathingly as the last soldier passes them. Balthazar steps away from the wall, toward Castiel, and says, “Sir Michael visited this afternoon, not long after we were locked up. But he spoke only to Uriel, and only in whispers, so that no one could overhear.”

“What did he say?” Castiel asks.

“He has ridden south to find the truth,” Uriel says reluctantly. “He wanted to speak with Sir Lucifer, face to face. He said that he could not believe Dean was dead, not without seeing the body himself.”

Castiel processes the information and counts the time it took for him and Charlie to reach the dungeons, to speak with the Great Dragon, and to free everyone.

“They could already be at the castle, couldn’t they?” Charlie says, having paralleled his thoughts.

“Yes, they could,” Castiel concludes, pushing away from the wall and starting to cross the courtyard. The others follow without question.

Dean, Heston, and Samandriel would have entered the castle stealthily. The alarm bells could not have helped them, and Castiel wishes with all his might that they have hidden themselves well. After all this, a second rescue attempt from the dungeons would be foolhardy.

* * *

Sneaking into the castle is easier than expected, leaving Dean conflicted. On the one hand, it is good for his current purpose that he managed to enter the castle without being detected, but on the other, weak defenses mean an enemy could just as easily slip inside. The patrols march in straight lines, never once turning to look behind themselves. When this is over, Dean will put them through stricter training.

Once inside, Dean leads Heston and Samandriel through empty hallways until they reach the hall leading to his bedchamber. He ducks into Cas’s bed-closet instead, though, because no one would think to look for trespassers there.

“Where is this?” Samandriel asks as they step inside.

Dean sits on the bed to make room. “It is Castiel’s room,” he answers. “They wouldn’t think to check here for us. Now, if Michael’s been called to an emergency meeting, he’ll likely be in the council chamber. Do either of you know where that is?”

“I do,” Heston says.

“Good. I want you to go there and ask for him. Do what you can to bring him here. Samandriel, do you know where the royal physician’s quarters are?” Dean asks.

“Yes.”

“Look for Bobby there. If he isn’t there, come straight back here.”

“We were told that he was ordered to stay at the king’s side at all times,” Samandriel says.

“Yes, I remember,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face, letting it linger over his chin and mouth.

“I could go to the king’s chambers,” Samandriel offers.

“There’s a larger chance that you’ll get caught.”

“Sire, Samandriel is light of foot,” Heston says. “He will not get caught.”

Dean hesitates, but there isn’t time to argue. “You may look for Bobby at the king’s chambers, then. But if there are guards at the door, do not approach.”

“I could say that I have urgent news from—”

“Fine. Do as you like. Just get Bobby here.”

“We won’t all fit here,” Heston points out.

“My bedchamber, then. It is next door,” Dean says. “Try to be back in ten minutes.”

The soldiers nod and leave the bed-closet with their orders, and Dean takes a moment for himself. Then he exits the room and makes his way through the castle with Sam’s quarters in mind as his destination.

If Michael was called to some sort of emergency meeting, Dean has no doubt Sam would be in attendance. And if Ruby is indeed exerting some form of influence over Sam, Kevin is probably avoiding her as much as possible—he’ll have stayed behind. Even before—before all of this, the boy had admitted that he didn’t like Ruby. Dean should’ve given more credence to his instincts.

In the corridor leading to Sam’s chambers, Dean pauses first at Kevin’s door, knocking a few times before concluding that he is not there. He moves on to Sam’s door, but before he can raise his fist, he thinks he hears voices just within, one male, one female.

Sam and Ruby?

But if there is an emergency meeting, wouldn’t they be present?

Slowly, holding his breath, Dean leans closer, presses his ear to the door, and tries to make out the words.

“—don’t know what I’m going to do if he passes,” Sam is saying.

“You survived Dean’s death,” Ruby replies. “You are strong enough to survive this too, regardless of the enemies knocking at our door.”

“Striking at our heart, more like,” Sam spits, and Dean thinks he can taste the bitterness even through the thick, wooden door. “I just—I simply can’t believe that there’s nothing more to be done.”

Dean is not going to learn anything useful from this conversation. It’ll be better to return to his bedchamber and wait for Samandriel and Heston to return with Bobby, and maybe Michael. Kevin’s whereabouts will have to remain a mystery for the time being.

He has only just turned away from the door when the alarm bell rings out, sharp and sudden. Biting back a curse, Dean takes off at a sprint down the corridor, wincing at the pounding of his boots against the stone floor. Behind him, the door is thrown open, but Dean turns the corner and races down a flight of stairs. If they give chase, he cannot lead them up to Samandriel, where there is less chance of escape.

Distantly, it occurs to Dean that he should have expected this. Castiel and Charlie went into the dungeons with the intent of freeing prisoners, after all. It would’ve been impossible to accomplish that without attracting any attention at all.

He crashes into someone and nearly keeps going, but—Kevin. It’s _Kevin_ , frozen in place with shock.

“Don’t just—” Dean starts, but he doesn’t bother finishing his sentence— _don’t just stand there_ —before grasping Kevin’s arm and yanking him along. There’s a crashing sound as whatever Kevin was carrying hits the floor—books, maybe, but Dean can’t be bothered about the noise, not when footsteps are clambering down the stairs behind them.

“Wait, _here_ ,” Kevin hisses, barely managing to stop Dean at a landing. Dean allows himself to be led a few steps down a hall, and then they duck into a linen closet, tiny, confining, with hardly any room to stand. This was clearly not built for people to enter.

“Christ, we’re going to die in here,” Dean whispers.

Footsteps continue pounding down the stairs, but they seem to return, and then to draw nearer. This is not good. The space is cramped enough that Dean doesn’t think he even has room to draw his sword.

Then—

“Sire?”

It’s Heston’s voice, breathless but unmistakable. What is he doing here?

“Yes,” Sam says, on the other side of the door. “You’re one of Michael’s soldiers—Uriel’s temporary replacement,” he adds. “What are you doing in the castle at this hour?”

“I was searching for Sir Michael,” Heston says.

“Searching for him?” Sam repeats. “Is he not in the barracks?”

“His page said that he was in an emergency meeting at the castle,” Heston replies evenly. “I came here to find him but found the council chambers empty. And then the alarm was sounded, and I wanted to ensure your safety.”

“Do you think Sir Michael is capable of assassinating the prince?”

That’s Ruby, sowing discord wherever she can. Dean would strangle her, if he could.

“No,” Sam answers before Heston can. “There is no way Michael could be behind any of this. You—what is your name?”

“Heston.”

“Heston, do you know where the alarm was sounded?”

“The dungeons, I imagine. Prisoners are awaiting execution, there.”

He sounds completely dispassionate, unfeeling. Dean shudders at the possibility that it is genuine. What if Heston cannot be trusted? But no—Samandriel said that Cas has never been betrayed before by a man he trusted, and it seemed Heston was counted among them.

More footsteps now, these sounding like a patrol, and then a new voice says, “Prince Sam, the prisoners have escaped. All of them.”

“Close the city gates,” Sam snaps immediately, voice moving farther away. “I want them found and returned to their cells. Alive.”

“Yes, sire!” the guards chorus.

“Heston, with me,” Sam says, quieter with distance.

Gradually the footfalls fade into silence, and Dean can breathe again. Inches away from him, Kevin squirms uncomfortably.

“Are you all right?” Dean murmurs, careful not to speak too loud.

It is dark, but Dean can detect the up-and-down movement of Kevin’s head—nodding. “You could’ve been gentler,” he says, and Dean is startled at the lack of deference in his tone. He’d been so timid before, playful at times but always respectful, careful, almost fearful.

These past three days have changed him.

“Is Cas dead?” Kevin asks, clearly dreading the answer.

“No,” Dean says. “And he wasn’t trying to kill me.”

Though Dean can’t make out Kevin’s expression in the dark, the pointed silence gives away that Kevin had never believed that. Obvious.

“What happened here?” Dean asks, but before Kevin can answer, a patrol passes by their hiding place, paces even, measured.

When the footsteps have faded, Kevin says, “I wish I’d convinced you to send Ruby away.”

“Is Sam acting of his own free will?” Dean asks.

“I wish he wasn’t,” Kevin answers, and it hurts more than Dean could possibly have imagined. “It looked like you were running from him, but—seeing as he didn’t ask the guards about you, I’m going to guess he hasn’t seen you yet.”

Dean shakes his head before remembering that it’s difficult to see. “No, I don’t think he saw me.”

“Then we should hide in your chambers, when the coast is clear,” Kevin says. “Sam decreed it off-limits after hearing that you’d passed.”

That’s for the best—Heston will obviously not be joining them, but with any luck, Samandriel will have found Bobby.

“I’ll go outside first and make sure no one’s coming,” Kevin says.

He doesn’t wait for Dean’s response before pushing the door open and stepping out of the closet. Dean waits for a tense moment, and then Kevin gestures for him to come.

“Quickly,” Kevin urges, trotting toward the stairs. Dean hurries to follow, wishing for once that he could be as light-footed as the boy is.

They make it up the stairs to his corridor without crossing paths with anyone else and slip into Dean’s bedchamber. The room falls into darkness when the door closes behind them, and Dean moves without thought toward a candleholder, a force of habit upon returning to his dark quarters. But Kevin catches his arm, shaking his head, and Dean remembers their situation.

The moon is bright tonight, and they can see well enough, anyway.

“What they’re saying is true, isn’t it?” Kevin asks. “About Castiel being a soldier before? I saw his brother. I was there when he was brought before Sam to be judged.”

“Yes,” Dean says. “Kevin, I need to know what happened. Who is this faith healer, and why hasn’t she healed my father as well?”

Kevin’s eyes widen in surprise. “You know so much already. What else do you know? Tell me, and I will fill in what you do not.”

“I know that a faith healer arrived soon after Cas and I left for Puria,” Dean says. “I know that she healed Sam, and that Father fell ill. And I heard that—that Sam has magic.”

As he finishes speaking, Dean watches Kevin closely, hoping, wishing despite what he already knows that Kevin can tell him different, that he will confirm that Sam hasn’t been lying to Dean for—for who knows how long.

“He isn’t himself anymore,” Kevin says quietly. “He has murdered people on Ruby’s word alone. But—the magic is his own. Bobby said that magic cannot be thrust upon one person by another. It can only come from within.”

Dean only nods, reluctant. Of course Kevin would ask Bobby whether the magic could be outside of Sam’s control. Sam lied to Kevin as surely as he lied to Dean.

“Tell me more about this faith healer,” Dean says. “Is she in league with Ruby?”

“It’s unclear,” Kevin says. “But she is no friend of Bobby’s, so I’m inclined to believe that she is working with Ruby.”

The door opens then, and beside Dean, Kevin jumps about a foot in the air. But the door shuts quickly behind the two new arrivals, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, Bobby,” he says.

“My god,” Bobby says, moving closer. He grabs Dean’s arm then and drags him to the window, into the moonlight. A hand comes up, grips Dean’s chin, holds him still for inspection.

“It’s me,” Dean says, and Bobby makes a choked sound.

“Boy, don’t you _ever_ do that again,” Bobby says.

“ _I_ didn’t fake my death,” Dean says indignant. “I’m pretty sure Ruby’s to blame for that.”

“I wasn’t talking about the scheme,” Bobby says. “I was talking about you taking Cas and leaving the City, without telling me. Without telling anyone but _Ruby_ , apparently.”

Yes, that was his oversight, and Dean nods to acknowledge it. “Ruby said that you were the one who suggested the panacea, and Cas was already packed to leave, so I assumed you knew we were going.”

“Panacea,” Bobby says flatly.

“Yes,” Dean says. “Ruby lied to me, and to Cas. She knew about Sam’s magic, and—and so did Cas. She used Sam’s fear of discovery to get Cas to go with her lie.”

“Castiel knew about Sam’s magic,” Bobby says in plain disbelief. “How? Even Kevin didn’t know.”

“Cas has magic,” Dean says.

“He does not,” Kevin says, but Dean is distracted by the pained look on Bobby’s face, there and gone. If they weren’t standing so close together, Dean would have missed it.

“You knew about it, didn’t you,” Dean says, voicing the thought even though it really isn’t necessary.

“I knew,” Bobby confirms.

“And—Delmonica? Did you know about that too?”

“Yes. I only decided he was trustworthy after learning that he’d saved your life.”

Dean steps away from the old man, needs a moment to breathe. He has uncovered so many lies over the course of the past few hours, and Cas, Cas was right. Dean doesn’t know how much more truth he can take tonight.

“Samandriel, this is Kevin, Sam’s manservant,” he says, making introductions because it’s easier, because it’s inconsequential. “Kevin, Samandriel. He was Cas’s brother-in-arms.”

“Brother-in-arms,” Kevin says faintly.

“Cas was a winged soldier,” Dean adds.

Kevin nods. “Right. Of course he was.”

“Don’t be angry with him,” Samandriel says. “He wouldn’t have shared the truth if he could avoid it.”

“I understand. We didn’t know each other for long.”

“Whether he trusted you or not, he wouldn’t have wanted the burden to fall on your shoulders,” Samandriel says. “He didn’t tell me, nor any of the other brothers who fought alongside him, when he returned.”

“I discovered on my own, and even after I knew, it took some time to get all the information out of him,” Bobby puts in, probably trying to help.

“You should’ve told me,” Dean says.

“You would’ve told your father, who would’ve ordered Castiel’s execution,” Bobby says matter-of-factly, and it’s infuriating that he’s probably right.

“You can’t say what I would or wouldn’t have done,” Dean argues nevertheless.

“There’s no point fighting over the past. It’s in the past, and we can’t change it,” Kevin says. “We need to do something to help Sam. Now.”

The door bursts open, and Dean immediately draws his sword, grabbing at Kevin to pull him back.

“Now, now,” a woman says, figure silhouetted against the light in the corridor. “I’m only going to ask you once: lay down your arms. There’s no need for this to get nasty. Yet.”

“Not a chance,” Dean replies.

“So be it,” the woman says, lifting a hand, and Dean hears a sharp intake of breath behind him—probably Bobby, judging from the distance.

“Stand down!”

Sam. It’s Sam’s voice, traveling from farther down the corridor, and there is simply no way they will leave this room without being seen.

Dean’s insides twist with unease.

The woman in the entrance turns, stepping out of the doorway and into the hall, and though the light illuminates the left side of her face, Dean does not recognize her.

She bares her teeth in a grin before turning back toward the door, and Dean wants to incapacitate her, but Samandriel has the same idea, and he’s closer to the door.

A long string of syllables hits the air, and Dean is lifted straight off his feet, hurled backwards by an invisible force. He thinks someone is shouting, thinks he sees Samandriel flung off to the right, limbs flailing as if he were a rag doll.

There’s a crash, and then no more.


	13. Chapter 13

With all the patrols underfoot, progress through the castle is slow. Charlie suggests splitting up at one point, but Castiel immediately shoots down the idea. Charlie, Uriel, and Balthazar aren’t familiar with the castle, and if any one of them is spotted, they’ll be locked up—Uriel and Balthazar especially. It takes up enough energy for Castiel to maintain the cloaking spell over them when they’re near to him; he doesn’t think he’ll last the night if he must spread himself thin with three extra spells.

Castiel’s first stop in mind is John’s bedchamber, since Dean will surely have thought to search for Bobby there. Before they’ve reached his floor, though, they pause halfway up a flight of stairs, and Castiel curses their luck as they climb back down to wait for yet another oncoming patrol to pass them by.

Except—

These footfalls are slower, less coordinated, and when the men come into sight, the reason becomes clear: they’re carrying Samandriel, unconscious. Castiel balls his right hand into a fist, digs his fingernails into his palm, and reminds himself that he must be still.

Heston comes down the steps behind Samandriel, stolid and grave, and Castiel hates that some part of him still suspects Heston may have come down on the wrong side.

“Let—let me _go_ —”

Castiel starts at the sound of Kevin’s voice, sounds of cloth shifting against cloth barely audible above the footsteps on the stairs. As Heston passes, Kevin comes into view, wrists chained together, escorted by two guards, and close behind him is a woman with an unfamiliar face, mouth pursed with dissatisfaction.

Darkness radiates from her, makes Castiel’s skin itch.

And then there’s Dean, body limp between the four men bearing his weight, and Castiel rushes forward, unthinking, instinctive, a snarl on the edge of his tongue. Charlie grasps his left arm and Balthazar his right, holding him in place, and—

Of course, they’re right. Castiel mustn’t give himself away, not now.

Bobby follows after Dean, restrained and escorted as Kevin was. Castiel can hardly believe his eyes.

“Sire, please—think about what you’re doing,” Bobby is saying.

“You’re the one who should’ve considered what you were doing,” Sam replies, eyes angry.

“That’s your own brother,” Bobby says.

“You can’t listen to any more of this, Sam,” Ruby says, eyes fretful as she comes into sight. “That’s not Dean anymore, not really.”

“I’ll decide whether it’s really Dean when he wakes,” Sam says forcefully, and his tone has no less ire in it than it did when he was speaking to Bobby.

Ruby may be influencing him, but he is still capable of being angry with her. He can yet be convinced of the truth.

“You can’t take me from your father,” Bobby tries next as he passes the spot where Castiel stands. “His condition only just started improving.”

Sam flinches. “Yet you left him to be with this—this—”

“With _your brother_ ,” Bobby interrupts.

“Someone gag him,” Ruby snaps.

“ _Ruby_ ,” Sam says sharply. “You don’t give the orders here.”

“He’s poisoning your mind with lies,” she says.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Bobby says spitefully.

“Just be quiet,” Sam says. “Please, Bobby.”

They fall silent, a few guards bringing up the rear, and eventually their footsteps fade. Castiel is aware of his companions’ close scrutiny, but it is difficult to focus on anything but the slackness in Dean’s limbs, the way his arm had flopped with the guards’ motions. If it weren’t for Sam speaking of Dean waking, he could have passed for dead.

“Upstairs,” Castiel finally says, leading the way.

“We’re not following them?” Balthazar asks.

“They’ll be taken to the dungeons,” Castiel says. “And they’ll be kept under constant watch, since we snuck you out from underneath the patrols’ noses.” Exhaling in resignation, he adds, “Our best hope is to revive John and hope that that wins Sam over.”

“Who was that woman who was with them?” Charlie asks as they reach the next landing.

“Teh’leal,” Uriel replies. “She arrived in the City three days ago and cured Sam’s illness.”

“The faith healer,” Castiel surmises. “Why is it that you know her name when no one else knows a thing about her?”

“He’s an officer now,” Balthazar says. “He doesn’t need to mingle with us common soldiers anymore. Why would he share all of his knowledge with us?”

“I am not always at liberty to share,” Uriel says tiredly. It is clearly not the first time this has come up.

They reach the king’s floor then, and Castiel leads them down the vacant corridor to his room. It is strange that the door has been left unguarded, but then, given the members in the procession from before, Sam may well believe that he has already captured everyone who was hiding in the castle.

Castiel gestures for the others to stay in the corridor as he pushes the door open, slow, in case anyone is lurking within.

The room is clear at first glance, and he steps inside to verify.

“Should we come in?” Charlie asks.

“No, stay there,” Castiel decides. “I’ll keep you hidden. If anyone comes, you’ll be able to leave. If you come in, we’ll all be trapped.”

“We’ll let you know if anyone’s coming, then,” Balthazar says.

“Wait—Cas, take this,” Charlie says, stepping forward and pulling a venenean plant from her pocket—it must be the one Dean gave her. “And be quick. We all heard what Bobby told Sam—he’ll probably send someone up here to look after the king.”

Castiel accepts the plant before letting the door fall closed, making sure to keep a tight hold on the thread of concentration devoted to keeping his friends concealed.

He crosses the room to the small table that has been set up at John’s bedside, out of place against the fine furnishings in the rest of the room. It’s covered in pastes and tonics and a number of plants that Castiel presumes have healing properties.

Setting the venenean plant down, he spares a glance at the man lying in bed, pale, feverish.

What if the Great Dragon lied when he said that John had been poisoned by the venenean plant? The cure to the poison of the venenean leaf is venenean root and aconite in honey, but to one not afflicted with the poison, aconite would be deadly.

Well—there is one way for Castiel to know. He remembers what Sam’s pain had felt like, and it stands to reason that if John suffered from the same poison, then he would feel the same pain.

Bracing himself, Castiel steps up to the king’s bedside and reaches out, pressing trembling fingers to his forehead.

The pain is immediate, immense, debilitating. Castiel wants to draw back, but it sinks its claws into him, pulls him nearer, and he feels too weak to fight it off, paralyzed, failing, dying.

_My boys_ , John is thinking, pleading, and his voice is so frail, fragile, not even half as strong as Castiel remembers Sam’s thoughts were.

John has no magic to help him fight this off. He is here, alone, and Bobby’s best attempts could only go so far.

_My boys, please, take care of them._

Who does he think he is talking to?

At this thought, the hold on Castiel tightens considerably, far stronger than before, and he shudders with it, tries again to free himself, to no avail.

_Castiel. When I am gone. My boys. Please._

Castiel hadn’t even realized that John cared enough to remember his name—in his presence, he has only ever heard John refer to him as “the boy.”

_Please. Sorry. My boys._

His thoughts may sound weaker than Sam’s were, but startlingly, he is far more aware. _You will not die_ , Castiel tries to tell him.

_My boys_ , John repeats, more insistent this time than before.

Pain ricochets up Castiel’s spine, centering at the base on his neck. _I’ll take care of them, sire. I promise_ , he vows.

_My boys_ , John says one last time, faint, and Castiel is released, stumbling backward and nearly colliding with the table behind him. When he looks at the king, he nearly expects his eyes to be open, but he looks as sickly as before, sweat beading on his brow.

Turning quickly, Castiel surveys the ingredients before him. There’s honey, but aconite—oh, aconite is a poison. Bobby never would have thought to bring it here.

He hurries to the door and pulls it open. “Do you know where the physician’s quarters are? I need aconite,” Castiel says.

“Poison,” Uriel says skeptically.

“Yes. One poison to counter the other,” Castiel replies.

“I know the way,” Uriel says.

“As do I,” Balthazar puts in.

“I’ll go,” Uriel says. “You’ve been sentenced to death, so the guards may have orders to kill you on sight for your escape. If I’m caught, I’ll only be reprimanded and sentenced to a longer stay in the dungeons.”

“I’ll go with you,” Charlie offers. “Safer to travel in pairs.”

“Go, then. Hurry,” Castiel says.

Charlie and Uriel depart down the hall, and Balthazar follows Castiel into the bedchamber when he moves away from the door.

“You don’t look well,” Balthazar comments.

To be honest, Castiel doesn’t _feel_ well, either. His skin feels too tight, and his magic feels—strained. Stretched thin. Regardless, he says, “I’m fine,” and avoids his brother’s doubtful eyes.

He realizes belatedly that the cloaking spell on all of them must have faded when John pulled him in. At least Balthazar is in the room with him, now.

“Tell me why it’s so important that you do this,” Balthazar says.

Castiel finds a mortar and pestle and places it before him, taking up the venenean plant and removing some of its roots to grind. “Loyalty,” he says, in answer to Balthazar’s question.

“Loyalty,” Balthazar repeats, something off about his tone. Castiel is unsure what it is. His brother then goes on to say, “Loyalty to the crown, or to someone else? You’ve never been overly fond of the king.”

“If you have a question, ask plainly,” Castiel says.

“Do you care for Prince Dean? Is that what this is about?”

Castiel is suddenly grateful that he has a task to keep his hands occupied, to save him from fidgeting. “I do not care for him beyond a servant’s care for his master,” he says stiffly. Why must everyone question this?

“You owe him nothing, yet you risk your life to save his father. Not only your life, but mine and our mother’s, too,” Balthazar says. “When all of this has passed, the king will learn of your magic and send you to the stake.”

“Have you always been so optimistic?” Castiel says blithely. Beneath the pestle, the roots break apart into smaller and smaller pieces.

Balthazar sighs and says nothing, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.

They remain in silence for a time, ending with two sharp knocks on the door. It swings open to admit Charlie and Uriel and a boy whose face seems familiar.

“Who—”

“Bobby’s apprentice,” Uriel answers.

“The name is Ash,” the boy says.

Castiel nods in acceptance and holds his hand out for the aconite—the venenean roots have long since been ground to powder and mixed with honey. Charlie steps forward and places a small vial in his palm.

“How can you be certain that this won’t kill the king? Aconite is deadly,” the boy says.

“Why did you bring him?” Castiel asks, eyes flitting from Charlie to Uriel.

“He would’ve told the guards if we didn’t,” Charlie says.

Castiel bites back the urge to tell them that they could have simply knocked him unconscious and says instead, “I had a reliable source.”

“Reliable?” Charlie scoffs. “Ruby is a reliable source, now?”

“Ruby is clever,” Castiel says. “You can always trust a clever user of poison to know the cure.”

“Of course, but she could have been lying.”

“Not while I was still in Winchester. As I said, she is clever. If I’d felt the need to verify the antidote with one of Bobby’s books of medicine, it would not have done for her antidote to be wrong.”

Castiel finishes mixing and pours the thick concoction into a small bowl; putting it into a vial would not work, as it would be difficult to get back out. Castiel selects a spoon and moves to John’s bedside, reluctant to come into contact with him.

A hand hooks around his elbow, and Castiel turns, surprised to see the boy—Ash—holding onto him.

“I can’t let you give him that,” the boy says. “You could kill him.”

“Or I could cure him,” Castiel replies.

“He looks closer to death than life right now anyway,” Balthazar says, pulling Ash away. “How much worse could Castiel make it?”

Free to move, Castiel steps closer to the bed and half-turns to the rest of the room. Sensing his request, Uriel joins him beside the bed and gingerly lifts the king’s head and neck from the mattress. When John is upright, Castiel leans over, gathers half a spoonful of the antidote, and brings it to John’s lips.

Carefully, half a spoonful at a time, the king takes his medicine. As Castiel sets the spoon down after the last of the medicine has been drunk, the king’s eyes flutter open.

“He’s awake,” Ash says, wonder in his voice.

John’s eyes land on Castiel, and he says, barely audible, “My boys.”

“What is he saying?” Balthazar asks, coming closer.

“My boys,” Uriel replies. “He said, ‘my boys.’”

Castiel can’t stay here. He starts to stand, but the king’s hand lands on his, and the wooden medicine bowl hits the floor.

“ _Castiel_ ,” the king grits out, loud and clear, and all eyes in the room turn to him. “My boys. You.”

He stops there, draws a shuddering breath, and coughs. Once he starts coughing, he doesn’t stop, yet everyone in the room is motionless, helpless.

“Do something,” someone says, but what is there for them to do?

John’s next cough sends a spray of black liquid across the covers in front of him, flecks of it landing on Castiel’s clothing and Uriel’s sleeve.

“Oh god, he’s dying. He’s dying,” Ash frets.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Balthazar says.

Castiel reaches up and presses his palm to John’s forehead, brows knitting with concentration, and the king’s eyes land on him, focused. Intense. The maelstrom of pain that Castiel expected doesn’t engulf him, and John blinks at him once, slow.

“He’s out of danger,” Castiel says.

“Are you certain?” Uriel asks.

“As certain as I can be,” Castiel replies. “Get up. Let him lie down.”

“Now what?” Balthazar says. “You’ve saved the king, not that he’ll ever thank you for it. Are we to return to the dungeons now, to fetch the prince?”

Castiel grips John’s arms, helping a little with his weight as Uriel slips out from behind him, and together, they lay him back against his pillows. The king’s eyes never leave his face, barely even blinking, and he makes an unintelligible sound when Castiel pulls his hands away and gets to his feet.

“If the king is no longer in danger of dying, then maybe it’s time we spoke to Sam,” Charlie says.

“Maybe,” Castiel says, considering.

“But how? He still thinks that you’re—” Balthazar starts.

“That I killed Dean?” Castiel interrupts. “We saw them with our own eyes. Sam must know that Dean isn’t dead. I don’t doubt he’ll be there to speak with Dean as soon as he wakes.”

“You said that we should revive the king and let him talk sense into Sam, but he—” Uriel gestures toward the bed, “—clearly is in no state to talk sense into anyone.”

“Perhaps Dean will be able to do it,” Castiel says.

“I doubt it,” Balthazar says.

“Yes, not with Ruby at Sam’s side,” Uriel agrees.

“Bobby and Kevin were with them too, though,” Castiel says. “And we saw their exchange. Sam seemed just as likely to believe Bobby as he did Ruby. They have a chance.”

“Everyone?” Charlie says, voice a little farther away than before, and Castiel finds her standing beside the window. “Which direction does this window face?”

“North,” Castiel replies.

“North,” Charlie repeats faintly, a hint of disbelief in her tone. “Is that possible?”

Balthazar only just beats Castiel to the window, and they look out to see movement on the horizon, difficult to distinguish due to the dark and the distance. The land to the north is a small, barren mountain, and on the opposite side of that mountain is the Cold Sea. This land has belonged to Winchester for generations, and as it is bordered by the tempestuous Cold Sea, there was never a reason to station an army north of the City.

“Is that really—” Balthazar begins.

“An army approaches,” Uriel says from over Castiel’s shoulder, grave.

“But—from the north?” Balthazar says, doubtful.

“They must have tamed the sea, somehow,” Castiel says. Tearing his eyes away from the window, he turns to Uriel and says, “Sir Michael is no longer in the City, so its defenses fall to the other knights, and to you. You must return to the barracks and rouse the soldiers. Have them ready for siege.”

“They’ll have orders to take him captive, won’t they?” Charlie says.

“I’ll go,” Uriel says. “We must prepare the City for siege. The sentries in the castle may have orders to capture me, but I doubt the prince would have roused the soldiers out in the barracks to assist. I remain the highest ranking officer there.”

Castiel nods, grasping Uriel’s hand and murmuring the words of another cloaking spell. “This will keep you hidden until you leave the castle,” he says, exhaling shakily as the spell draws upon his strength.

“We should wake the other knights,” Balthazar says. “We can’t bring all the soldiers up into the castle so that they can see the oncoming army, but we can bring the knights. If the soldiers don’t believe Uriel alone, they’ll have to believe the rest of the knights.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “But it can’t come from you. You’re still a coconspirator to Dean’s murder, in their eyes.”

“I could send a soldier when I return to the barracks,” Uriel offers.

“No, that’ll take too long,” Castiel says. Eyes falling on the physician’s apprentice, he says, “Ash, you must know where the knights reside.” At his nod, Castiel says, “Go to them and tell them that the king has awoken.”

“Do you trust him not to run straight to Sam and tell him where we are?” Balthazar says.

“I’ll go with him,” Charlie says. “There are no orders to capture me, so I’ll be fine as long as I’m not caught along with any of you. And the knights know my face. Whether they like it or not, I am a friend of Dean’s.”

“All right. Go, all of you.”

Uriel takes off first, and Charlie and Ash follow him out the door.

After it swings closed, Castiel turns back toward the window, watching the movement on the horizon. The army must still traverse the rocky downward slope of the mountain, but it could be upon the City by daybreak.

“What should we do?” Balthazar asks.

“We can’t leave the king alone here, defenseless. Ruby poisoned him. If she discovers that he will not die of the poison, she may come here and slay him,” Castiel says.

“Sam should be told that the City is coming under attack, shouldn’t he?”

Castiel exhales. “Stay here and defend the king. I’ll go to the dungeons.”

“What—alone?”

“We’ve no other choice,” Castiel says. “When the knights come, just try to stay out of their way. When they see the approaching army, I doubt they’ll care to recapture you.”

“Fine,” Balthazar says.

A thought occurs to Castiel then, and he says, “We need to send word to Sirs Raphael and Gabriel. They would not believe you or me, but if Sir Victor sent a message by carrier pigeon, they would send reinforcements.”

“Not Sir Lucifer?”

“He was the one who supposedly sent word of Dean’s death,” Castiel says. “I am not sure whether we can trust him.”

“All right. I’ll tell the knights when they arrive,” Balthazar says. Grasping Castiel’s forearm, he says, “Be careful.”

“You, too.”

* * *

Dean’s head is pounding when he wakes, and he holds back a moan of pain, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. His shoulder and hip hurt too, a familiar ache that he knows from having had to sleep on the hard floor before.

What on earth possessed him to fall asleep on the floor?

He starts to move, but his ears pick up voices, not far away, and he holds still, straining to hear what is being said.

“Please, Sam, just _listen_ to me.”

That’s Kevin. For a moment, Dean is utterly confused, and then he remembers. The lower town, burning. The barracks, silent and still as he and Samandriel hurried down the halls. The crescent on Castiel’s belly, healed over, white in the moonlight.

The silhouette of the woman who’d appeared in his doorway, the evil in her eyes, her smile.

“We should return to the castle,” a different voice, a female voice, is saying now.

“Ruby, stop,” Sam says. He sounds so tired. “I don’t want to hear any of this.”

“You can’t just trust what you see to be true,” Ruby persists. “There are spells that can rouse the dead. There are sorcerers who can raise the dead—necromancers. The living dead do their bidding.”

“Living dead or not, I need to speak with him,” Sam says. “If you won’t be silent, you can return to the castle on your own.”

“ _Sam_ —”

“I mean it!” Sam snaps. “I’m not stupid. I know my brother. When he wakes, I’ll know whether he’s—whether he’s truly himself or not.”

“You’ve never had to deal with the living dead before,” Ruby argues.

“What, and you have?”

“I have,” a different, deeper female voice says, and Dean hears the echoes of other words in the back of his mind. _There’s no need for this to get nasty, yet_.

“Teh’leal, I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, but I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“With all due respect, Highness, the living dead do not bear markers that differentiate them from the living. They are very convincing.”

“I _know_ my brother!” Sam barks. “Get out. Both of you, get out.”

“He will play on your affection. He will appeal to your love for him,” Teh’leal continues.

“Guards!” Sam says, and footsteps come rushing nearer.

“I’ll keep quiet, Sam. Let me stay,” Ruby says quickly.

“No, just go,” Sam says. “Guards, escort them back to the castle.”

“Ruby, don’t argue. You must trust Sam to make the right call,” Teh’leal says.

Dean waits for their footsteps to fade, concentrating on his breathing. Sam sent Ruby away. Surely that is a good sign—a sign that he is in his right mind.

“Sam,” Kevin says.

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say, either.”

“Sam,” Kevin repeats, quieter than before but no less determined. “You and I have lived in close quarters for _years_. How could you possibly doubt my word, my loyalty to you?”

“Kevin, don’t.”

“I would die before betraying you. You must know that.”

“You and Castiel were so close,” Sam says. “And Castiel, he… he…”

“He obviously _didn’t_ kill Dean,” Kevin says. “Do you honestly believe the crap they said about the ‘living dead?’ I’ve never heard something so ludicrous.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Sam says.

He sounds so lost.

Dean groans, exaggerating a little, and finally opens his eyes. As he’d expected, he lies within a prison cell, the bars before him familiar. Sam is standing beyond the bars, arms folded across his chest, an unreadable expression on his face. Behind him is Heston, face as impassive as always.

“Sam,” Dean says, and it comes out a croak. He suddenly becomes aware of how dry his throat is and attempts to swallow.

“I need you to answer my questions,” Sam says.

Dean pushes himself up to a sitting position, rubbing at his shoulder. “Ask,” he says.

“Why’d you leave the City?”

“To save you,” Dean says.

“To save me?”

“That was what I thought we were doing,” Dean says. He tells Sam about the panacea, about riding down to Puria, and about the false Purian patrol that had lain in wait to ambush him and Castiel not long after they’d crossed the border.

It’s quiet for a moment after Dean finishes his story, and then Sam says, “So you expect me to believe that Ruby—that she was the one who set you up to be ambushed. That she—what, poisoned me, and then waited until you were gone before giving me the antidote?”

Before Dean can answer, Ruby says, “You can’t believe him, Sam. He knows that I am his biggest threat right now. Of course he would try to pin all of this on me.”

“I thought I sent you back to the castle,” Sam says.

“I can escort her back to the castle personally, sire,” Heston offers.

“I couldn’t just leave you here to listen to his lies,” Ruby says, moving into Dean’s sight. Heston steps forward, but Sam holds up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re the one who’s been lying!” Kevin says from the cell to Dean’s left.

“I wouldn’t lie to Sam,” Ruby says. “I knew about his powers, and I told no one.”

“Because telling people wouldn’t have done you any good,” Dean says. “You wanted him to trust you. When the day came for you to put your big plan into motion, you wanted to ensure that he would trust you over Bobby, over Kevin, over _me_.”

“I’ve never lied to him. Never.”

“Sam,” Dean says. “I know about your magic, now.” Sam takes a step back, as though he’s afraid, and Dean goes on, “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still my brother. I—”

“Of course he would say that,” Ruby interrupts hurriedly. “He’s at your mercy right now. Appealing to you as your brother is the only card he has left to play.”

“This isn’t a fucking _game!_ ” Dean snaps. “Sam, you said you knew me. You know me.”

“You were awake?” Sam says, eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” Dean admits. “I had to know where you stood.”

“He’s deceiving you even now,” Ruby says.

Sam holds up a hand and says to Dean, “You said that Castiel was injured when you were ambushed in Puria, and that he returned to the City with you. Where is he now, then? Did the two of you help his family escape the dungeons tonight?”

“We had to rescue them,” Dean says. “We learned that they were going to be executed in the morning for conspiring to murder me, but that was a false crime. Do I look dead to you?”

“He’s lying,” Ruby says. “The real Dean would’ve gone straight to you as soon as he got back, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have stayed hidden. He would’ve wanted to reassure you that he was alive.”

“Ruby—” Dean starts.

“He wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of breaking into the dungeons and freeing those prisoners, because he would’ve known that you would release them, if they weren’t involved in trying to assassinate him. This isn’t Dean.”

Dean watches Sam’s expression, full of distrust, and god, Ruby’s getting to him. Sam believes her.

“I was worried that you weren’t in your right mind,” Dean says. “I had to be sure that you would listen before approaching you.”

“That’s enough!” Ruby says, pointing a finger in his direction. She shouts some words that Dean doesn’t understand, and he feels his throat constrict, tight enough that he can’t draw breath.

He chokes, falls backwards, and curls up on his side, trying in vain to pull air into his lungs.

“Stop!” Sam says, but the invisible force only tightens.

Dean kicks out involuntarily, muscles spasming. His headache grows worse.

“I said, _stop!_ ”

The pressure releases then, and the first burst of air that hits Dean’s lungs makes him cough violently, shuddering with relief. Through bleary eyes, Dean sees Sam holding onto Ruby’s wrist, wide eyes fixed on Dean.

“How can you still believe her?” Kevin says. “She tried to murder Dean right before your eyes.”

“It’s not Dean. You may have fallen for his deception, but I have not. I’m only trying to protect Sam,” Ruby argues.

“Deception,” Kevin repeats. “You’re one to talk.”

Then Teh’leal’s voice drifts down the hall. “That really _is_ enough.”

“I wanted you to leave,” Sam says.

At his side, Heston draws his sword, and this time Sam doesn’t tell him to stand down.

“They won’t believe us,” Teh’leal says, words ostensibly directed toward Ruby, who turns away from Dean and toward her.

“No, I—we still have a chance,” Ruby says, and she actually sounds fearful.

“I won’t hurt him,” Teh’leal says. “But the others have to go.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam says.

“This deception no longer matters,” Teh’leal says. “The army will be upon the City of Winchester by morning. The king will be dead by then, and there are less fickle ways to control your precious prince.”

“Army. What army?” Dean says, blood gone cold.

“That is no longer any of your concern,” Teh’leal says, stepping into view. She has a manic grin on her face, eyes glittering by torchlight, and Dean instinctively scoots back in his cell, trying to put more distance between them.

Sam lets out an abrupt, enraged shout and shoves Ruby aside, hand raised against Teh’leal. But she ducks and thrusts a hand in Sam’s direction, and Sam gets thrown backwards, out of Dean’s sight.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, leaping to his feet, but he can only watch as Heston attempts to attack Teh’leal and is flung against the wall behind him, sword clattering to the floor.

“Oh, rest assured; I won’t kill your dear brother. You ought to spend your last moments worrying about yourself,” Teh’leal says.

“Fuck you,” Dean snarls.

As soon as he finishes speaking, footsteps come pounding down the hallway from both ends, and Teh’leal’s head whips from side to side, distracted. Her eyes land on Dean again, calculating, but then Ruby grasps her arm, speaking quickly and quietly.

With a frustrated cry, Teh’leal thrusts a hand up above her head, curls her fingers into a fist, and drags it down rapidly. Thick, black smoke pours out of the air and lands on the ground, wrapping around her and Ruby and obscuring them. There’s a loud sound, like a thunderclap, and Dean has to take a step back to catch his balance as the ground shakes.

The smoke clears as the guards arrive, but Ruby and Teh’leal are nowhere to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to work my way out of the cliffhanger zone, but lots of things are happening, so it might be a little while. Sorry!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has somehow become a fic of all dialogue and no action. How. Why.
> 
> Also, I must warn you now that I will be plunging straight into a ton of studying. I have two "small" exams to get through by the end of January, or maybe mid-February, and then there's another big one set for June that I'll roll straight into. Blarrrgh. (And of course after that I'll have probably a month break before prepping for the October sitting, so. Eww.)
> 
> I also don't have a buffer for this fic because lack of planning, so. Sorry! I'll see what I can do about working on this, but other things have to take priority for a while. I tried to end it on a non-cliffhanger for once, so at least there's that...

Dean stares at the space where the witches were, disbelieving and maybe a little terrified. He has seen magic before, has seen Cas light a flame on his palm with apparent ease, but seeing two people vanish into thin air is a whole new level of abnormal.

The guards look around in bewilderment, expressions betraying as much fear as Dean feels. Then—

“Dean!” Sam says, appearing between the guards. “Dean, are you—”

“I’m all right,” Dean interrupts to calm him.

“Shit,” Sam says. “Keys! Someone—who has the keys?”

A guard steps forth with the key ring and fumbles with the lock in his hurry, and Dean gets to his feet, moving closer to the bars. The expression on Sam’s face—some horrible mix of anxiety, guilt, anger, and fear—makes Dean’s gut twist.

The door swings open, and Sam gestures for the guard to open the cells on either side of Dean’s, but his eyes remain on Dean.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“God, Sam,” Dean says, because Sam was lied to, misled. He should not have to apologize. As soon as he’s out of his cell, Dean draws his little brother into an embrace, holding him as he trembles.

“I thought you were dead,” Sam says, quieter. “I thought—I thought I could trust her. I’m so sorry.”

Bobby steps out into the hallway, and beyond him, Samandriel emerges. Dean looks in the opposite direction for Kevin and sees the boy coming toward them, eyes alight with wrath.

“How _dare_ you question our loyalty!” he barks with surprising ire, shoving at Sam’s shoulder and breaking them apart. “Years I served you, Sam. Years!”

“Calm down,” Dean says, grasping Kevin’s elbow in case he attempts to hit Sam.

“I’ve held this in long enough!” Kevin snaps, pulling free. He points a finger at Dean but keeps accusing eyes on Sam as he continues, “He is your own brother—your own flesh and blood—and you didn’t believe him. And Bobby, he’s looked after us for as long as I can remember. Longer, I’m sure.”

“Boy, this is getting us nowhere,” Bobby says. “I don’t know where those witches disappeared to, but we ought to get back to the castle. They mentioned an army.”

“But—they’re only two sorceresses,” Sam says. “They can’t have control over an entire army, can they?”

“Setting aside the fact that they could’ve enchanted a general to obey their commands, Teh’leal is not who she said she was,” Bobby says. “She used an enchantment to alter her appearance, but I know her now. She is the Great Witch Lilith.”

The name seems vaguely familiar, but Dean isn’t sure where he’s heard it before.

“The one who terrorized the land in our father’s youth?” Sam asks, because of course he would remember the things he learned about history that came before either of them was born.

“The very same,” Bobby replies. “I recognize her signature. Her magic. Now, we must return to the castle. John is still very ill, and if we cannot cure him, he could be gone by morning.”

“Actually,” a familiar voice—Castiel’s voice—says abruptly, and Dean jolts, searches for him, and spots him standing a little farther down the corridor—“I may have already taken care of that.”

The guards around him have already drawn their swords, and Dean’s heart leaps into his throat with instinctive fear and worry. Cas, nonsensically, seems wholly unconcerned.

“Castiel,” Sam says, and at the lack of ire in his voice, the just-unsheathed swords lower slightly. Dean breathes easier.

This is _absurd_.

“How long have you been standing there?” Sam asks. “Did you just arrive?”

“He appeared from thin air,” a guard nearer to Cas says.

“It was a cloaking spell,” Cas says casually, moving through the crowd toward Sam and Dean. “I wanted to be sure of the situation before stepping forth.”

“You have magic,” Sam says, and he sounds—betrayed, somehow.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Cas says.

“But you _knew_ ,” Sam says. “You knew about—”

“We don’t have the time for this,” Cas interrupts, expression turning apologetic for only a moment before hardening again. To Bobby, he says, “The king was poisoned by the venenean plant. Sam suffered from the same ailment, and it was this plant that Dean and I sought when we ventured to Puria.”

“Since you’ve returned, I assume you found what you were looking for,” Bobby says.

“Yes,” Cas answers. “I administered the antidote, and the king recovered enough to speak to us, albeit not entirely coherently.”

“Then let’s go at once,” Sam says, starting down the corridor.

The guards step aside to let him through, and Dean follows. He passes by Bobby and Samandriel, who apparently still care enough about propriety that they must let the royals lead the way.

“There’s more,” Cas says from behind Dean as they climb the stairs leading to the courtyard.

“The army?” Dean surmises, recalling Teh’leal’s—Lilith’s—words.

“Yes. An army approaches from the north.”

“The north?” Dean repeats, caught off guard. “There are merely a few barons to the north of the City. What kind of an army could they have mustered up?”

“Certainly not an army of the size we saw,” Cas replies. “It must have crossed the Cold Sea.”

Before tonight, Dean would have thought that impossible, even with the aid of sorcery. But only minutes before, he saw two human beings vanish right before his eyes. It is difficult to imagine anything that sorcery _cannot_ do. So he asks, “Have you sent someone to the barracks to rouse the soldiers?”

“I sent Uriel.”

“Good. And the knights? Where is Michael?”

“He wasn’t in the council chamber when I went to find him,” says a voice farther back—Heston.

“Sir Michael told Uriel that he was riding south to speak with Sir Lucifer in person, to confirm Dean’s death,” Cas says.

“He was more levelheaded than I was,” Sam says.

“He’s not as close to this as you are,” Dean says gently. But now is not the time to be assuaging his brother’s guilt; there’ll be plenty of time for that after they live through this. As they cross the courtyard to the castle, Dean asks, “Cas, how much time do you think we have?”

“I estimate that they’ll be here by first light. We can’t have more than two or three hours to prepare the City for siege.”

“Siege? Not battle?” Dean asks. Are the enemy ranks so great?

“It was too dark to make out their numbers, but Ruby and the Great Witch want the City to fall to them; I have no doubt that we are outnumbered. They likely have sorcerers among their ranks, too. It would not be wise to meet them on the battlefield. In a straight fight, we’d be at a disadvantage.”

“Castiel is right,” Bobby says. “The Great Witch Lilith was known not only for her magic but also for her cunning. If it is an army of her making, it will be prepared.”

Dean nods and passes Sam to lead the way up the castle stairs. At the landing of the king’s floor, Dean hears raised voices and breaks into a sprint, because whatever’s happening in Father’s room, it sounds like it’s on the verge of boiling over into a fight.

Amidst the voices, he can hear Charlie and Victor. God, what if they kill each other?

More accurately, what if Charlie kills Victor? She wouldn’t. Or—would she?

Dean throws the door open and finds one man on his knees, a sword held to his throat by Calvin. Behind Calvin stand Jake and Gordon.

Father’s coverlet, ordinarily red, is splattered with black, and Charlie is standing right at the head of the bed, sword held to Father’s throat. For a terrifying moment, Dean thinks that Charlie has already killed him—that the black sprayed across the bed is dried blood.

But Charlie shouts, “This is _not_ how I wanted to do this, but if you kill that man, you kill the king, too!”

Victor is halfway between Calvin and Charlie, sword drawn, but he’s too far away, and there is simply no way he could stop Charlie if she wanted to slit the king’s throat. His head is turned toward the door now, startled by the interruption, and Dean reads surprise and disbelief in his expression.

Charlie appears to be relieved, but when Dean turns his eyes to the kneeling soldier, he doesn’t expect the anger and suspicion directed toward him. It takes Dean a moment to place the gray-eyed man as one of the sole survivors who’d returned from Delmonica.

This must be Balthazar.

This is Cas’s brother.

* * *

Castiel isn’t completely certain why he chose not to reveal himself in the dungeon, when Lilith was threatening Dean’s life. He’d been poised to interfere, but some instinct had told him to hold back, that he’d be better off if Ruby and Lilith didn’t know about his powers.

Thinking back, he supposes he was saving the element of surprise. Lilith and Ruby will move on the City under the impression that Sam is the only wielder of magic within its walls.

Dean breaks into a run when they reach John’s floor, and Castiel sets his thoughts aside, racing down the hall behind Sam and Kevin. Above the pounding of their boots against the floor, Castiel hears shouting, can pick out Charlie’s voice the clearest because she’s female, voice pitched higher than the others.

Exhaustion has really begun to set in, and this running makes his bones ache.

But he doesn’t hear Balthazar at all, and that’s terrifying enough to keep him moving. What if the knights really did kill him on sight?

They burst into the room, and Castiel takes in the sight of Charlie, poised to slaughter the king—of Sir Calvin, sword pressed against Balthazar’s neck.

_No_.

Before he can think better of it, Castiel wrests Calvin’s sword from his grip and sends it flying across the room, clattering against the far wall and landing in front of the fireplace. The abrupt spell nearly steals Castiel’s feet from beneath him, but Heston is right there, a firm hand wrapping around Castiel’s elbow and steadying him.

All attention in the room shifts to Castiel—he must have verbalized the spell without realizing it. The eyes he meets all have varying degrees of fear and mistrust, save Charlie’s and Balthazar’s.

At least Dean already knows.

“Don’t,” Dean says when Sir Jake moves to take Sir Calvin’s place.

“We have orders—”Jake starts.

“They were my orders, and I rescind them now,” Sam says, stepping forward.

Castiel eases his arm out of Heston’s hold, giving him a slight nod to reassure him that he’s all right. These knights all know that he has magic; they must perceive him as a threat, now. He cannot show weakness.

“Sire,” Victor says, gaze shifting from Castiel back to Dean, “is that really you?”

“It’s me,” Dean says. Without fanfare, he announces, “There is an army approaching the City from the north.”

The knights seem surprised by this information, even though they should have heard it from Charlie and Balthazar by now. But given the situation Castiel saw when he entered the room, they must not have believed Charlie after seeing Balthazar in the king’s chambers.

Dean crosses the chamber toward the north-facing window, and his knights step aside for him before crowding around behind him.

Castiel starts toward his brother, but Sam beats him there, offering a hand. Stubborn as ever, Balthazar refuses it, bracing his gloved hand against the floor and pushing himself back to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I was misled.”

“That means little to me and less to the men you already slaughtered.”

“Balthazar,” Castiel says sharply.

“It’s all right,” Sam says, eyes averted. “Whatever my intentions were, whatever I believed—it doesn’t change what I did.”

Meanwhile, Bobby hurries to the king’s bedside, and Charlie steps away to give him room, stowing her sword in its sheath.

“My god, I thought you’d never come,” she says, walking over to Castiel.

“You are…?” Sam asks.

“Oh—sorry. I’m Charlie. We met, briefly, but you were a little hazy at the time. Poisoned, apparently.”

“Right.”

“Glad to see you’re both fine,” Charlie says, nodding toward Kevin and Samandriel in turn. “We saw you on your way down to the dungeons. Castiel nearly jumped out to save you.”

Dean returns from the window, trailing his knights. “Cas,” he says, “you said Uriel already went to the barracks, right?” At Castiel’s nod, he says, “Heston, I want you to lead the guards out to check the perimeter. Make sure our enemies can’t find an alternate way to breach our walls.”

Heston gives Castiel’s elbow a light squeeze, and Castiel nods, temporarily at a loss for words. Heston has always been the stickler for the rules, the one who would not bend even after everyone else already had. For him to seek Castiel’s permission before following a direct order from the Crown Prince of Winchester speaks volumes of his regard for Castiel.

How could Castiel ever have doubted him?

As Heston steps out of the room, Dean continues, “Knights, make your way out to the barracks. The soldiers should be awake and arming themselves by now, but tell anyone you encounter that I’ve returned, and that Castiel and his family are not traitors. And aid in the preparations. Many of the younger soldiers haven’t been through a siege before.”

“Yes, sire,” the men chorus before exiting the room.

“Oh, and Victor?” Dean calls out, and Sir Victor pokes his head back into the room. “Send carrier pigeons to Raphael, Gabriel, and Lucifer. We’ll need their reinforcements as soon as possible.”

“Yes—” Victor starts.

“If I may,” Castiel interrupts, getting an angry look from the knight in the doorway, “I don’t think it is wise to send word to Sir Lucifer. We don’t know whether he can be trusted yet.”

“How _dare_ you,” Victor says. “You’re only a manservant. A manservant who has been _hiding magic_. Even if you did not assassinate Dean, the fact that you’re a user of magic is—”

“Is what?” Sam cuts in sharply. “A death sentence?”

Victor’s eyes widen a fraction. “Sire, I didn’t—”

“Castiel is right,” Sam says, turning to address Dean. “Lucifer was the one who sent word of your death. I don’t know whether he sent word personally or whether Ruby and Teh’leal were able to get control over one of his trusted messengers, but it’ll be safer if we don’t tell him yet. He could send an army to help the enemy.”

“Sam,” Dean says hesitantly, “he’s one of the Four. He would never turn on Father.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Kevin says. “Sam turned on you, and he was your brother.”

“Kevin,” Dean says, clearly a reprimand even though he says nothing more to the boy. To Victor, he says, “Only send word to Raphael and Gabriel. Lucifer will require some more thought.”

“We could send a rider,” Castiel suggests. “If Sir Michael already is on his way to Sir Lucifer, then by the time a rider reaches them, Sir Michael will either believe that you are dead, or that you are not. If he believes you to be dead, then Sir Lucifer lied to him.”

Dean nods and says, “Victor, send our fastest rider.”

“I will, sire,” Victor says, and disappears into the corridor.

“Bobby—Bobby?” Dean says next, and moves toward the king’s bed. “Is he—”

“Castiel’s remedy has already helped greatly,” Bobby reports. “The king is just resting, now. I can make a tonic to ease his pain and speed his recovery, but if we are coming under attack, perhaps I should be readying splints and salves.”

“I can do that,” Ash offers. Castiel hadn’t even noticed him in the room before, staying somewhere out of the way.

“Yes, let Ash prepare for the siege,” Dean says. “You make sure Father recovers.”

“Sire,” Bobby acknowledges with a nod, and with his agreement, the physician’s apprentice leaves.

Turning back to the rest of the room, Dean’s eyes immediately land on Castiel and linger for just a moment before darting away. “Sam,” he says instead, and pauses.

“I can fight, and I have magic. And I’m to blame for this. You can’t make me sit this out,” Sam says.

“You’re not to blame,” Dean says.

“Not entirely,” Kevin corrects, and Castiel doesn’t miss the pained look that crosses Sam’s face.

“Do you two need to be separated?” Dean says abruptly. “Kevin, do you want me to dismiss you from Sam’s service?”

The expression on Kevin’s face can only be categorized as shock.

“Very well, then,” Dean says, point proven. “We have a city to defend. We don’t have time for you to keep laying guilt on Sam. Now do as he says, and just—keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam says.

Dean sighs, a short sound. “I don’t need to tell you not to listen to Ruby if you see her, do I?”

Sam’s jaw clenches tight. “No, you don’t.”

“All right. Go.”

Sam exits the room, taking Kevin with him.

It occurs to Castiel that Samandriel and Balthazar are still here—that they didn’t leave with Heston and the guards, or the knights. He doesn’t even need to look at them to know that they are his to command, not Dean’s. At least, not truly Dean’s.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he pauses a second time, though Castiel doubts it is for the same reason.

He wishes he didn’t care. He is so _tired_ , and they have little time before the invading army is upon them.

“You already know the truth of me,” Castiel says. “I will be more effective outside the castle than I will be here.”

Dean nods, something like regret in his eyes. “You and I…”

“Can part ways here,” Castiel finishes for him, turning toward the door. “Samandriel, Balthazar.”

But a hand wraps around Castiel’s elbow, slender, and he turns to see Charlie looming close. “Hey,” she says. “Don’t just walk away.”

Samandriel and Balthazar are already out in the hallway, and Castiel has no interest in any dialogue between Dean and himself. The sooner he puts distance between them, the better.

It is true, yet the thought makes a disconcerting pang rip through Castiel’s chest.

“We’ll find Uriel,” Charlie says, stepping out into the hallway. “Won’t we, boys?”

“We will,” Samandriel agrees with a nod, but when Charlie tugs the door to John’s bedchamber shut, Balthazar still looks concerned, skeptical.

Castiel doesn’t turn to face Dean—doesn’t want to.

“I need some ingredients from my stores,” Bobby says suddenly. “Should’ve told Ash when he left, but I didn’t realize. I’ll be right back.”

He passes by Castiel on his way to the door, and then he’s gone, too.

Castiel braces himself and turns around. “Did you have any parting words for me?” As an afterthought, he adds, “Sire?” and gets to watch Dean’s eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch.

“We’re past that now, aren’t we?” Dean says.

“Apparently,” Castiel replies, walking past Dean and over to the north-facing window.

If he doesn’t keep moving, he thinks he’ll collapse on the spot. He has never used so much magic in one night, and he doesn’t know how much strength he has left. He hasn’t had occasion to test his limit before, and now that the adrenaline of the night is fading, he thinks he has reached it, if not surpassed it.

“Cas,” Dean says, sounding strangely concerned, “are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Castiel volleys back, because he doesn’t want to lie, and the truth will only lengthen this conversation that should have been over five minutes ago.

Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder, not even with any real weight, yet Castiel feels his knees giving out, helpless to stop them. But he doesn’t hit the floor, caught up in Dean’s arms before he can.

He _must_ be drained, if Dean could sneak up on him entirely undetected.

“God, Cas,” Dean says, “what’s happened to you? Are you ill?”

Castiel shoves away from Dean, and his legs feel shaky underneath him, but they carry his weight over to the large oak table set halfway between the foot of John’s bed and the fireplace.

“Cas,” Dean prods.

“You only caught me by surprise,” Castiel says, even though that explains nothing.

Dean follows Castiel to the table, standing beside him when his legs buckle and drop him into a chair. “What’s the matter with you? Tell me,” Dean says.

“What difference does it make to you?” Castiel snipes, aggravated. But he must give Dean more, or he’ll never be left in peace. “Just let me rest here an hour or two. I’ll help Bobby watch over the king. When the dawn comes, I will be ready.”

Callused fingers catch the underside of Castiel’s chin, tipping his head up. “Tell me,” Dean insists.

What has he left to lose? “No,” Castiel refuses.

“Don’t shut me out.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You didn’t trust me before, and you don’t trust me now. Why should I trust you?”

Dean actually flinches at Castiel’s words, but he doesn’t pull his hand back, and he doesn’t look away. “I trust you,” he says. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have listened to your advice about Lucifer.”

“Sam confirmed it,” Castiel says.

He lets his eyes fall shut, because keeping them open a minute longer is unacceptable.

Perhaps he went too far on this night, and when he falls asleep, he will not wake again.

“Hey,” Dean says, a note of urgency in his tone. “Cas. Cas, look at me.”

Dean’s hand leaves Castiel’s chin only to cup his left cheek, his other hand rising to mirror it. When he gives Castiel a light shake, Castiel opens his eyes blearily.

“Please,” he finally says at the blurry shape of Dean’s face, “just leave me. I need to sleep.”

He thinks Dean kisses him, but then he thinks he imagined it.

Or maybe he has already fallen asleep, and this is a dream.

* * *

In Puria, Dean arguably saw Cas at his weakest. He’d been injured and unconscious. Defenseless.

Yet there’s something about this moment, about the weight of Cas’s head in Dean’s hands, the ease with which he let himself fall asleep like this, that makes him seem more open, more vulnerable. Dean wants to wrap himself all around Cas, wants to be his shield.

He’d be frustrated with himself, or ashamed, but in all honesty, he’s too busy feeling relieved that the impulses to hurt Cas, to mark him somehow, haven’t even entered his head.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist stealing a quick kiss, because he probably isn’t allowed anymore.

Cas wants nothing to do with him, and Dean can’t say he blames him. Cas could have left at any time tonight. With his magic, he could have healed himself and left Dean behind in Puria, after Dean discovered that he was a winged soldier.

He could have chosen not to come into the City with Dean and Charlie when they saw the lower town burning.

He could have gone as soon as he rescued his brother and mother from the dungeons.

Yet he stayed in Puria, and he waited with Dean while Charlie determined what had happened in the City. He chose not to leave Winchester after rescuing his family and went on to save Father’s life, despite knowing Father’s hate for magic. And now he’s here, fast asleep in Father’s bedchamber.

Samandriel may think that Castiel doesn’t trust him, but Dean knows now that the opposite is true—he holds the evidence of it in his hands.

Gingerly, Dean tips Castiel backwards, so that his head rests against the high back of the chair. Some part of him is worried, distantly, but he has very little medical knowledge, and Bobby should be back soon, anyway.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there, only realizes that time must have passed when he hears the door opening behind him.

“Bobby,” he says after turning around. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes,” Bobby says hesitantly, eyes flicking to Castiel. “Did you?”

“Not really,” Dean says. “Cas, he… it looks like he just fell asleep. He said to leave him alone, but I…”

Dean doesn’t have to finish because Bobby is already crossing the room, setting a small wooden box down on top of Father’s dining table and leaning over Castiel. He lifts one eyelid and then the other, frowning. Then he opens his box and gets out a small bowl and a roll of cloth, which unrolls to reveal a row of needles. He pricks one of Cas’s fingers and squeezes a few drops of blood into a small bowl before adding a thick, clear liquid to it.

None of it means anything to Dean, but Bobby tuts, disapproving.

“Is he all right?” Dean asks.

“He has overexerted himself,” Bobby says. “Ordinarily, I would recommend a week of bed rest—four or five at the very least—but I doubt he’ll allow that. And with the current state of things, we need him.”

“He’s just tired?”

Bobby looks at Dean, unimpressed. “Where do you think magic comes from? All energy in this world is borrowed. No man can create from nothing,” he says. “Every spell takes a toll on its caster. There are crystals that can be used as power sources, and there are tonics to strengthen the body for particularly arduous spells, but even so, every spell must draw upon its caster for energy.”

Dean’s eyes wander back to Cas as he asks, “Does Cas have one of these crystals?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” Bobby replies. “Given his level of exhaustion, he would have used a crystal by now, if he had one. He was born with this and had no training. He may not even know that such crystals exist. Castiel’s magic comes from within, instinctive. I’ve never seen anything like it. If he were anyone else, he might be dead already.”

“Normal people can’t cast spells anyway,” Dean says.

“I am talking about the sorcerers I’ve met. Overexertion can be measured in the thickness—thinning out, rather—of the blood,” Bobby says. He lifts the bowl and swirls its contents around a little, and Dean watches the drops of Castiel’s blood sink down with the bowl’s movements before spiraling back upward, slow. “If I saw this alone, I would think that the blood had come from a sorcerer that had just been drained to death by a spell.”

“But Cas will live?”

“I think so, but he really should be lying down. He is very weak, Dean. If he does not get sufficient rest, he could still die.”

“I’ll take him,” Dean says.

Bobby frowns. “Need I be concerned about his safety, Dean?”

“No,” Dean says. “Just look after my father. Cas will be fine.”

Bobby looks a little doubtful, but he steps away, gathering up his needles and his box to go to Father’s bedside.

Dean moves closer to Castiel’s chair and reaches out, places a hand on his shoulder.

“Try not to wake him,” Bobby warns.

Thinking back on how quickly Cas fell asleep, Dean says, “I doubt that’ll be a problem.” He stoops and slips his arm beneath Cas’s knees, pulling him closer. Cas slumps toward him, and Dean wraps his other arm around his shoulders. Gingerly, he lifts Cas from the chair, eyes on Cas’s face to watch for signs of waking.

Cas doesn’t stir, and Dean makes his way toward the door. Bobby is there to open it when he is close enough, and Dean steps out into the hall, only to find Balthazar waiting there, impatient. His expression morphs to one of concern and distrust when he sees Cas in Dean’s arms, but he merely clenches his jaw, biting back whatever he’d initially wanted to say.

“I can take him, sire,” Balthazar says as the door closes behind Dean.

God, no. Never.

“Bobby said he overexerted himself. I’m taking him somewhere quiet to get some rest,” Dean says.

“I can take him,” Balthazar repeats, extending his arms this time, but Dean shakes his head.

It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Balthazar. Of course Cas’s own brother would see to his wellbeing. It’s just—now that Cas is in Dean’s arms, how can he possibly let him go?

“I thought you were going with Charlie and Samandriel,” Dean says.

Balthazar’s brow furrows. “I wanted to wait for my brother,” he says slowly.

Dean chooses to walk away from him then, because he won’t let Cas go, and he doesn’t want to explain himself. Balthazar follows him, and wordlessly, they make their way to Dean’s hallway.

Dean bypasses Cas’s bed-closet and stops in front of his own bedchamber. Balthazar opens the door for him, and he steps inside, carrying Cas toward the large bed. Before he can get there, Balthazar hurries past him and turns down the covers—the top layer first and the others next, when he realizes that there are many layers.

“Thank you,” Dean says, and carefully sets Cas down on the bed. He sinks into the soft mattress with a sigh, and Dean grabs the corner of the lowest layer of the covers, tugging them up to Cas’s chin. He covers Cas up carefully, one layer at a time, before taking a small step back.

“Why?” Balthazar asks eventually, nonsensically.

“Why what?” Dean responds without even looking at him, because the sight of Cas in Dean’s bed is surreal. It is also somehow everything that Dean never knew he wanted.

“Why did you thank me, sire?” Balthazar says, and Dean finally forces himself to turn his attention away from Cas. “He is my brother. It is my duty to care for him. If anyone should be giving thanks, it is me. So why did you thank me?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for him. “You should go,” he says instead. “You’ll be more useful with the other soldiers.”

“Sire,” Balthazar persists, “I need to know what you intend to do to him.”

“If I were going to kill him, I wouldn’t have carried him here and placed him in my bed.”

“I’m not worried about you killing him, sire. As you said, he is in your bed. Can you understand my concern?”

“What are you trying to imply?” Dean says.

If this were about anyone else, he’d be furious, but Cas is… complicated. Dean is guilty of all sorts of things when it comes to Cas, and impure thoughts are the least of them.

“I am not implying anything. I am asking what you intend to do.”

“I only thought I’d rest here, too,” Dean says, taking the fur coverlet from the bed; there are enough layers that Cas shouldn’t feel cold. “We had a long ride today, and I could use some sleep.”

He is loath to leave the bedside, but he doesn’t want to drag a chair over, not when Balthazar is still in the room to watch him—to observe and to pass judgment.

Dean turns away from Cas, but before he can move, a hoarse voice comes from behind him—

“Go. It’s all right.”

Dean immediately turns and finds Cas’s eyes open, more alert than he would’ve expected for someone just waking—and especially after what Bobby told him about Cas’s level of exertion.

“Cas,” Balthazar says.

“You should help the others,” Cas says. “I only need an hour or two. I’ll find you.”

“But—”

“Go,” Cas says, more forcefully now.

Balthazar thrusts his hands up in the air, frustrated, but he finally gives up, pausing only to give Dean a barely deferential nod before leaving the room.

“How long have you been awake?” Dean asks.

“Not long,” Cas answers, starting to push himself upright.

Dean immediately moves to stop him, grasping his shoulders and pressing him back to the bed. It’s disconcertingly easy to overpower him in this state.

“I will sleep better in my own bed,” Cas says.

“I doubt that,” Dean scoffs, dragging the covers back up to Cas’s chin.

Those crystal blue eyes land on Dean’s face, searching. Dean doesn’t know what Cas is looking for.

“Sire,” Cas says, and the title coming from Cas’s lips actually feels _wrong_ , now that it’s said meaningfully. “I was hoping… I know my crimes are great. I believe I’ve done enough good that I might receive banishment in lieu of a death sentence, but…”

His eyelids flutter a little, and he blinks once, slowly, like he’s drifting off again.

Despite his better judgment, Dean presses, “But?”

“Oh—sorry, sire,” Cas says, and this time it grates a little on Dean’s nerves.

Is he doing it on purpose to test Dean now? Or was he purposefully repressing his manners to test Dean in the past?

“I only hoped I could visit my family, now and again,” Cas says, meeting Dean’s gaze as he finishes his thought. His eyes are so blue. “Maybe a temporary banishment.”

“Cas, you won’t be banished,” Dean says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “You’ve saved my life, and now you’ve saved Father’s. You may yet help save this city. These are the important things. Your crimes—deception, and defection, they were small in comparison, and only to keep you safe. I wouldn’t punish you for them.”

Cas smiles, a small, weak thing. “You can’t speak for the king, my lord.”

And that, that is too much.

“What are you doing?” Dean demands.

Cas’s eyebrows lift just a little, but his eyes still look sleepy, and Dean doesn’t think he’s seen an expression more endearing. It’s slightly infuriating. “Sire?”

“ _That_ ,” Dean says, probably showing more ire than he should. “Why are you calling me that?”

“I was asking for a favor. I thought it would help if I addressed you appropriately, since it got me into trouble in the past,” Cas says.

“Manipulating me, even now,” Dean says, smiling despite himself, and Cas smiles back.

“Only a little.”

Dean’s hand lifts of its own volition. He pauses when he realizes where it is headed, surprised at himself, before giving up on propriety and pushing his fingers into Cas’s dark hair.

Really, Dean abandoned propriety when he forwent Cas’s bed-closet to deposit him in his own bed.

“Sleep,” Dean says, gently massaging Cas’s scalp. “We have much to discuss, but now is not the time. According to Bobby, you’re going to need all the rest you can get.”

Cas makes a small humming sound, and Dean takes it as acknowledgement, because next Cas is closing his eyes, features smoothing out.

Dean continues moving his fingers in small, circular motions until Cas’s breathing deepens.


End file.
